one
. . .
Wynter
My head is tryingto split itself in half. That's my first thought as consciousness drags me kicking and screaming back into the world. Vegas lights flash behind my eyelids like a neon nightmare, and my mouth tastes like I've been licking the carpet of the casino floor. I groan, trying to piece together last night's blur of shots and slot machines, when my hand brushes against something warm. Something breathing. Somethingmassive. My eyes snap open, and suddenly the hangover is the least of my problems.
I'm in a hotel suite that screams money. Not the kind of place a small-town girl like me books for herself. The sheets are Egyptian cotton, the kind you see in magazines, draped over a California king bed that could fit a family of four. Sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating a spacious room with sleek furniture and what looks like an honest-to-God chandelier.
This isn't my room. This isn't my bed.
And that mountain of muscle beside me sure as hell isn't my teddy bear.
I turn my head slowly, each degree of movement sending fresh jolts of pain through my temples. The man lying next to me is enormous. He's sprawled on his stomach, one thick arm flung across the space where I'd been sleeping. Dark tattoos cover every inch of visible skin on his broad back and massive biceps. His face is half-buried in a pillow, but I can make out a strong jaw darkened with stubble and short dark hair that looks like it's been cut with military precision.
Jesus Christ. Who is he? What did I do?
I try to rewind the fragmented tape of last night. Flashes come to me in disjointed snapshots. The casino bar. Fruity drinks that didn't taste like alcohol but hit like a freight train. A deep laugh that made my stomach flip. Dark eyes watching me from across the room. Strong hands steadying me when I stumbled in my heels.
The hangover fog parts just enough for panic to seep in, and that's when I notice something catching the morning light. A band of gold on my left hand. Simple. Elegant. Unmistakably a wedding ring.
No.
No fucking way.
My heart tries to jackhammer its way out of my chest. I look over at the stranger's left hand, searching for—and finding—a matching band on his ring finger. It's thick and masculine, but undeniably a match to mine.
Married? I got married? To a complete stranger in Vegas? That only happens in bad movies and worse decisions.
I'm twenty-three years old. I've never even lived with a boyfriend. I color-code my planner and get anxious ordering at new restaurants. I don't marry strangers in Vegas.
More memories float to the surface. The man—Vance, I think his name is—buying me drinks. His massive frame making me feel small and protected. His eyes never leaving mine as Ibabbled about books and my small-town life. The heat between us when he leaned close. The way my body responded when his fingers brushed mine.
But a wedding? Nothing. The space where that memory should be is just static.
I need to get out of here. I need to think. This has to be some kind of mistake, a joke, maybe even a fake ceremony. Vegas is full of Elvis impersonators who'll "marry" anyone for a laugh and a tip.
Moving with the careful precision of someone disarming a bomb, I ease myself up and slide toward the edge of the bed. Each movement is a negotiation with my hangover, but fear is a powerful motivator. I scan the room for my things, spotting my purse on a chair and what looks like my dress from last night draped over a nearby loveseat.
What am I wearing? I look down to find myself in an oversized t-shirt that definitely isn't mine. It smells like sandalwood and something distinctly male. I don't remember changing. I don't remember?—
No. Don't go there. One crisis at a time.
But I can’t help it.
My cheeks color, and I look down between my legs, looking for any sign of blood. Don’t tell me I lost my virginity and was blacked out and don’t even remember it.
My brow furrows when I don’t see any blood. I also don’t feel sore down there. Wouldn’t I be sore if we had…you know?
I slide my feet to the plush carpet and stand on wobbly legs. The room tilts for a moment before stabilizing. I tiptoe across the room, gathering my purse first, then my dress. My underwear is nowhere to be found. My cheeks burn as implications cascade through my mind.
I duck into the bathroom, closing the door with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room. My reflection inthe mirror is a horror show. Mascara raccoons around bloodshot eyes. Hair that looks like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket. And that ring, glinting accusingly on my finger.
I splash water on my face and try to think. This is fixable. People make mistakes in Vegas all the time. That's why annulments exist. I'll just explain to this Vance person that we both had too much to drink, laugh it off, and we'll both go our separate ways with a wild story to tell.
I change back into my dress from last night, a simple black number that now feels like wearing yesterday's mistakes. The bathroom door opens with a creak that makes me wince. The massive form on the bed hasn't moved. Good. I can grab my shoes and be gone before he wakes up. We'll sort this out later, through lawyers or hotel management or whoever handles these situations.
I creep toward the door, purse clutched to my chest like a shield. My shoes are right there, just a few more steps?—
