Page 12 of Accidental Mile High Vows

He pulls out his phone and makes a call. “I need a car at my location in five minutes. And call Maurice at Valentino…”

I stare at him. “We’re really getting married right now?”

He grins at me. “We’re getting married, princess.”

4

SAVANNAH

We’re standingin front of the chapel calledElvis Forever, and it’s exactly as tacky as it sounds. I’m in a new dress, holding a bouquet, and there’s a huge diamond ring on my finger—all courtesy of my husband-to-be.

The Elvis impersonator is wearing a white jumpsuit with rhinestones. “Names?” he asks, going straight to the point.

“Ledger Volkov,” he says.

I freeze. Then I start laughing. I can’t help it. I’m doubled over, clutching my bouquet, laughing so hard I can barely breathe.

“You okay?” Ledger asks, trying not to smile.

“Volkov!” I gasp out between laughs.

The officiant looks amused. “Should I wait?”

“No, no.” I wipe my eyes. “Sorry. It’s just…Volkov sounds so Russian mob boss.”

Something flickers in Ledger’s eyes. Something dark and dangerous that’s gone before I can really see it. “Perhaps,” he says quietly.

A shiver runs through me, but I’m too drunk and too happy to care.

“And your name, dear?” the officiant asks me.

“Savannah Castellanos.” I grin at Ledger. “Soon to be Savannah Volkov, apparently.”

We’re both laughing as we sign the papers. My handwriting is a disaster, with wobbly lines and smudged ink. Ledger’s is steadier, but not by much.

The ceremony takes ten minutes. Elvis pronounces us husband and wife, and Ledger kisses me in front of a velvet painting of Graceland. We stumble out into the night as a married couple, and I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe.

“What did we just do?” I ask.

“Something we’ll either regret or remember forever.”

I giggle at the irony.

His driver—a weird guy called Pedro who gives off major killer vibes—comes around, and we climb into the back. Ledger’s hands are on me before we even pull away from the curb, and I’m kissing him like I need him to breathe.

The Bellagio lobby is a blur. Elevators. Hallways. Then we’re in his suite, and it’s massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the strip, a living room bigger than my entire house, a bed that could fit six people.

He crosses the room to me slowly, and when he reaches me, his hands cup my face.

“You’re sure?” he asks.

“I’m your wife now,” I say. “I think that ship has sailed.”

He kisses me, softer this time, and then not soft at all. His hands find the zipper of my dress, and it pools at my feet. I’m standing in my underwear and heels.

“Come here,” he says, voice low and rough. “Help me get out of these.”

I step closer, hands moving to his tie first, undoing it carefully, then removing the jacket and shirt. As the layers fall, I can see the full sweep of his sleeve tattoo. Dark swirls and sharp lines, muscles flexing beneath it. My breath catches.