It was bad enough when we woke up to a barrage of headlines and a photo of us kissing in the celebrity gossip columns, but this, this issomuch worse.
Fuck me sideways. Ash is going to kill me. I’m toast.
A million thoughts race through my mind as I leap out of bed, my skin clammy as bile creeps up my throat, not from a hangover but from fear.
Looking around the room, my eyes land on Erika’s hand, and there it is: a fucking wedding ring, teasing me like it’s the world’s biggest prankster.
Fuck.
I then check my own hand, and recoil in astonishment. I have one too.
Double fuck.
I think I’m on the verge of having a heart attack, feeling more lightheaded than I was before, a cold sweat breaking out across my body.
Eyeing a folded piece of paper on the nightstand beside Erika, I run over and grab it, then unfold it with trembling hands. And there it is. It’s officially signed and dated from the Marriage License Bureau, which I only know is open twenty-four-seven because one of my clients got married last year. There’s no waiting period. You just show the fuck up, obtain the license all within a couple of hours, and boom… you’re married.
I drop my ass onto the edge of the mattress, trying to make sense of our in-the-heat-of-the-moment decision, and place the license back on the nightstand.
Wait. Did that actually happen?
I check the ring on my finger again. Yup… it’s still there.
Holy shit, I have a wife.
Dr. Erika Johansson.
She’s not that anymore; she’s Dr. Erika Hill, although she may want to keep Johansson as her professional name. We’ll see.
Whatever happens, this is wild.
Although, now that I’ve had a couple of minutes to think about it, this could be the best thing I’ve ever done. She’s mine now. Forever.
My cell phone shrills again, making me jump, and right there in big letters is Ash’s name. I stare at it as if willing it to stop, its persistence gnawing at my insides.
I can’t pick up; not yet.
Because I have no idea what to say. There’s no explanation for our stupidity.
Or maybe it was a genius plan.
Either way, I’m in hell, and I’d put money on it that Ash is working out how to kill me in the slowest and most painful way.
“Stop with the noise.” Erika groans long and gruffly.
I kill the ringer and toss it on the bed. “Erika, you gotta wake up, baby.”
“Five minutes,” she grumbles.
“We don’t have five minutes.” We do, but I’m partly overwhelmed and partly excited, and I need to share this outlandish situation we have gotten ourselves into.
“What time is it?” she moans, unmoving.
I push her hair off her face to discover her cheek smooshed against the mattress. Even on her worst days, she still looks beautiful. “Midday.”
“Our flight isn’t for hours yet.” Her sleep-filled voice sounds raspy.
“I need to talk to you.”
