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“How old are you?” I ask.

“Twenty-two.”

That’s what I assumed after I saw her Instagram, but I don’t admit that. “You’re an entire decade younger than me,” I murmur. “How are you a virgin?” Like…how? She’s hot as all fuck. Seems smart. Seems to have a good head on her shoulders.

I guess that’s debatable given I’m pretty sure we got married last night. Not very smart on her part to tie me down. She deserves better. There’s no question about that.

“Not having sex,” she mutters. “The literal definition.”

“You’ve never had sex,” I say flatly. Man, if I wanted to fuck her before knowing this, now it’s…it’s…well, it’s something else entirely. “Like…ever?”

Now I need my shot with her. It’s been a long, long time since I was lucky enough to be with a virgin. And this one is my wife.

What the fuck world did I wake up in? This doesn’t appear to be the same one I fell asleep in, and I’m not sure which I’d rather stay in permanently.

She rolls her eyes. “Look, it’s not some big thing. I’ve had…um, opportunities, but nobody’s ever really held my interest long enough that I wanted to. And then I met you, and I knew—”

“Jesus Christ, don’t finish that sentence,” I interrupt her, my voice strained.

“Why not?”

“Because you’ve waited this long, and if you finish that sentence the way I think you’re going to, I’m going to give you exactly what you’re asking for. But you deserve more for your first time than a hungover hockey player the morning after a night neither of us can remember.”

“Speaking of which, what time is it?” she asks again, and I realize I never answered that question earlier.

“Eight forty-five.”

“Fuck!” she squeals, and she hops out of bed. Like legit hops, perky and adorable, like the copious amounts of alcohol aren’t even affecting her. Meanwhile, I’m over here feeling like I got my ass kicked last night, desperate for my hangover concoction.

And that’s the difference a decade makes.

“What?” I ask.

“I’m supposed to be at a meeting at Ev’s office in forty-five minutes. She’s going to kill me if I show up late.”

She’s wearing a tiny scrap of material to cover her pussy. That’s what she calls bottoms? But nothing else. She’s entirely naked, and I can’t help but stare at her.

I snap myself out of it. “You’re welcome to use my bathroom. Or I can take you home. Where do you live?”

She grabs her dress from the floor to cover her tits. “I live with my sister. I can’t sneak in this late. She’ll murder me.”

“Won’t she already be at the office?” I ask.

She contemplates that. “You don’t by chance have women’s clothes laying around, do you?”

“I think you’d like me less if I said I did.”

“Good point. Okay…think,” she murmurs mostly to herself.

Her eyes move to my chest, then lower, and she tilts her head in curiosity as she eyes the tattoo along my ribs.

I still haven’t told her that we’re married. At least…I think we are.

“Can I shower here real quick? I probably smell like a tequila factory.”

“Distillery,” I murmur.

“Yes. That. I can get my hair up and fix my face with whatever makeup I have in my purse on the way home, change, and maybe make it to the office on time. Where are we? And do you have ibuprofen? My head is killing me. Where’s my phone?”