“To the happy couple!” someone toasts, and then another.
“They’re all buying it,” Jess whispers, her breath warm against my ear.
“We’re pretty convincing,” I agree as I tighten my arm around her waist.
Her blue eyes, slightly unfocused from the champagne, meet mine. “Maybe too convincing.”
I don’t know what possesses me, but I lean in and kiss her again, this time slower, more deliberate. The crowd around us cheers, but all I can focus on is how right it feels, how the curve of her body fits against mine, how the taste of her lips is rapidly becoming my favorite flavor.
“You know what you guys should do?” Marcus slurs, slamming down his glass. “You should get married! Right now! Vegas, baby!”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Jess laughs, but her eyes don’t leave mine.
“I don’t know,” I hear myself say. “Could be fun.”
The crowd erupts in encouragement. Madeline has long since disappeared, giving up on any hope she had for us and the evening. The night has transformed into something unrecognizable from how it began.
“You’re not serious,” Jess says, but there’s a dangerous glint in her eye.
The whiskey, Vegas bombs, and heat of her body against mine make me reckless. “Scared, Lexington?”
“You wish, Carmichael.” She downs her champagne and stands, wobbling slightly. “Let’s do it.”
The crowd roars its approval, and as someone starts looking up the nearest chapel on their phone, I have the fleeting thought that this might be either the biggest PR disaster of my career or the best night of my life.
Maybe both.
five
. . .
Jess
Cold.Hard. Wet?
My eyes flutter open—and then immediately slam shut against the painful assault of sunlight. My mouth tastes like something died in it, and my head feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise. When I finally force my eyelids apart, I’m greeted by the curved white porcelain of a bathtub. A very nice bathtub in what appears to be a very nice bathroom.
And I’m lying in it. In only my bra and panties.
“What the hell?” I croak, my voice raw, like I’ve been shouting. Or singing. Oh, God, was I singing?
I sit up too quickly and wince as pain ricochets through my skull. Something tickles my forehead, and I reach up to find a wedding veil tangled in my hair, the comb digging into my scalp.
My stomach lurches as fragments of the previous night flash through my mind. Champagne, lots of champagne. Shots. Lucas’s arm around me. Madeline’s face. More champagne. A crowd cheering.
I pull myself to standing, the bathroom spinning slightly, and step gingerly out of the tub. My clothes are scattered across the marble floor. My black pants are draped over the towel rack. One heel is on the counter, but the other is nowhere in sight. An empty champagne bottle sits on its side next to a—is that a garter? I haven’t had a hangover like this since college.
After wrapping myself in a plush hotel robe hanging on the door, I venture out of the bathroom. I’m in a massive suite with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Vegas strip. The place is scattered with evidence of a celebration: another empty bottle, a half-eaten strawberry, rose petals creating a trail to the bed.
As I follow them, dread builds with each step.
When I turn the corner, I find him: Lucas Carmichael, media spin master and eternal pain in my ass, sprawled face down on the king-sized bed. The sheets cover exactly none of him, giving me an unobstructed view of his perfectly toned backside. The baseball-player physique hasn’t faded since college.
For a brief, clearly hangover-induced moment of insanity, I just stare. Not that I’m keeping score, but apparently, the man does squats. Jesus.
Then reality hits.
“WHAT. THE. FUCK.”
