Annoyingly, the wink flusters me. I tighten my robe.
“Gabriel,” I say as evenly as I can. “I’m afraid that I’m not in the habit of drinking to excess.”
He rubs his temples. “I am. But I rarely black out. I remember the poker games.”
“Yes,” I say quickly, eager for something to make a drop of sense. The games were in a back room at the casino, selected by my agent for his bachelor party, and I can see the extravagant decor in my mind. “The poker games. I ran into someone there.”
I squint at him, searching my memory through the splitting headache. His body is impressive, meaty and muscular, but nowhere near as toned as I am. Doubtful that he’s a professional athlete.
More foggy memories come back. “Everett,” I blurt out, surprised.
“Everett Navarro?” the man asks. “You know him?”
I tense, not liking any of this. “In a way,” I say.
In all honesty, I avoid Navarro outside of tournaments. We’re two of the top tennis players in the United States, both with global rankings. We see each other often, of course, and it seems we’re always on the verge of a rivalry.
But he’s an out gay man. And as I have no interest whatsoever in being an out gay tennis player myself, I’m more comfortable with some distance from his spotlight.
Naked, Gabriel stands. “I know Everett through mutual friends,” he says as he walks to the curtains, which he roughly pulls shut, sparing us from the painful morning light. He turns back to me. “That must be how we ended up at the same poker table.”
I glance around. “This doesn’t look like a damn poker table.”
Gabriel laughs. “I hope we at least waited until we were back in the hotel before we started fucking.”
My head spins. “I don’t do this,” I blurt out.
“What? Fuck strangers?”
I tighten my brow. I can’t bring myself to clarifymen, but when a look of slight disappointment settles on his face, I realize he understands.
“Please don’t have a straight shame panic,” he says, sounding totally bored.
I open my mouth, but realize I have no clue what to say. Aware that I’ve probably embarrassed myself enough for one morning, I snap my mouth shut instead and turn on my heel.
“I need to go,” I say as I find my clothes, strewn about. I pull on my boxer briefs beneath the robe and let out a relieved sigh when I find my phone and wallet near my jeans.
“Of course you do,” Gabriel says.
I turn to face him, not wanting to be an asshole, although I’m almost certainly acting like one right now. “Sorry,” I manage.
Gabriel shrugs. I wonder if he’s dealt with this kind of thing before. He’s a stranger, but I don’t want to be just another conflicted closet case to him. I don’t want to treat him like someone I’m using and running from, although that’s essentially what I’m doing.
That’s when I notice the paper on the sleek black dresser.
It’s printed on thick paper, stamped and sealed and official-looking.
I lean over.
It’s a marriage certificate.
It’s a marriage certificate with my name on it.
“This says that I married Gabriel Drako at a place called the Pink Diamond Chapel last night,” I say flatly.
My brain tries to process the sentence.
Then I gulp and sprint to the bathroom again.
