My boss went down on me last night?
“Well, we can move past it,” he said with what sounded like forced determination. “Right? We had a night of, uh, poor decisions, that won’t define our working relationship. We won’t discuss it again. Are you comfortable with that?”
Another vision, this time of me attempting to deep throat Logan’s impressive length.
Wait, not attempting.Succeeding. I didn’t have a gag reflex.
“I am,” I said quickly.
I really liked my job, especially the way it was evolving with Noah. I didn’t want to put his healing in jeopardy because his father and I had gotten drunk and horny for each other.
“Okay, then. I’m glad we agree,” Logan said in his businessman voice. “No changes to our working relationship. Now I just need to find my clothes…”
We both glanced around the room and morphed into crime scene investigators. His blazer was nowhere to be seen. My dress was crumpled in the doorway. His pants were in a pile next to it. My bra was snagged on the edge of the dresser.
“There’s my shirt,” Logan said.
I watched as he reached toward the end of the bed.
His hand froze in midair. “What isthat?”
I scanned the room, looking for whatever could have freaked him out. Cameras? Spiders? An emptied minibar?
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Look…at…your…left…hand.”
I held it up in front of my face and gasped.
He wasn’t talking about my chipped manicure. There, on my ring finger, sat a stupidly shiny gold band.
That perfectly matched the one onhishand.
“It has to be a joke,” I finally managed. “Like, party favors, or something. Or maybe they’re smart rings from the casino? You can scan them instead of using credit cards?”
“I sure as hell hope so,” he grumbled. He pulled his button-down on and leaned over the edge of the bed, presumably looking for his shoes. He sat up abruptly, clutching a piece of parchment that looked like a diploma.
“No.”
There was so much nuance in that single syllable. Anger. Disbelief. Horror. Logan closed his eyes and sank back against the headboard.
I leaned over and snatched the paper away to see for myself.
Certificate of Marriage.
There, at the bottom, were our scrawled signatures.
And I’d dotted theIin my name with a fucking heart.
My heartbeat shot up to marathon level as I considered what it meant. I’d been blackout drunk once or twice before, but the results had never been anything worse than crushing an entire pizza solo.
“No, no, no, this can’t be real,” I moaned, scanning the very real looking document.
The officiant’s name. Witness signature. Fancy gold seal. License number.
“This is not good.” Logan stated the obvious.
“How?” I shrieked. “Like, how would anyone agree to marry us when we were circus-clown drunk?”
