* * *
GABRIEL
My apparent husband retches as I mess with the coffee machine. Plenty of questions demand my attention through the hangover, but I know it’s useless to try to make sense of anything before I’ve gulped some caffeine.
I’m not interested in marriage. I’ve had three major loves, and each has ended in heartbreak and disaster. Sober Me has learned my lesson, but apparently Wasted Vegas Me forgot about all that.
His butt must have done me in. The man has globes of steel. It’s like a cake on top of his tree-trunk thighs.
There’s no way in hell I’d fall for his type usually. Even in the thralls of a hangover, Spencer screams uptight. His blond hair is wavy with just a little length, and he somehow woke without a strand out of place. And his sparkling blue eyes, square jaw, and straight teeth all scream golden boy.
Fuck. He might even be a professional athlete. That would explain how he knows Everett.
Could I have seriously gotten so drunk that I married a tennis jock?
Humiliating. Jocks aren’t even my type.
He emerges from the bathroom, eyes fixed on his phone. “This isn’t good,” he grumbles. “Marriages are public record in Vegas. Did you know that?”
“No, sadly. I’m not up to date on marriage law.”
He huffs, annoyed. “You might find this funny, but I don’t. If anyone were to find out what happened…” He looks ill as he trails off, then shakes his head. “We need to get this annulled. And I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to sign a nondisclosure agreement.”
“An NDA.” I pour two mugs of coffee and hand one to him, which he reluctantly takes. “Do you expect people regularly comb the Vegas wedding announcements looking for your name?”
He frowns. “I’m not vain. But I am famous.”
Damn it. I think I did marry a tennis jock.
“In that case,” I tell him, “we might be screwed.”
His pale skin gets even paler. “Why do you say that?”
I shrug. “It seems a bit conspicuous for two famous people to marry each other. Don’t you think?”
I watch that sentence work through my husband’s hungover brain. “You’re famous, too?” he asks weakly.
“I’m a rock star.”
“A rock star!” He slaps his hand to his forehead. “I’m still trying to process the fact that I had sex with a man last night. Let alone that I married him. And now you’re telling me that you’re a damn rock star?”
“Afraid so.” I spot a condom lying on the ground, which I gingerly lift and peer at. “Although there doesn’t appear to be cum in this. Maybe we were too drunk to consummate?”
Spencer stares at me with disbelief. When I continue holding the condom up, he waves his arm frantically. “Put that away!”
I toss the condom to the trash and, when I do, notice a purple mask on the ground. “Purple mask,” I say.
“What are you on about now?” Spencer asks.
I lean over and grab it. It’s like something you would wear at a masquerade, sparkly and big enough to cover the entire face. I slip it on. “Maybe we wore these last night,” I suggest before I pull it off again. “A little anonymity for our famous faces.”
He gives me a funny stare.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re that guitarist from Lost Storm, aren’t you?”
“I used to be. The band broke up years ago.”
