Page 1 of Accidentally Hitched (Unintentionally Yours #1)

Callum

I t’s hot.

I’m sure that’s a Captain Obvious statement considering I am in Las Vegas in July.

But I’m not just talking about the heat on the strip.

I’m talking about the heat under the stage lights as a sea of women from 21 to 71 scream at me to “Take it off!”

How the hell did I get here?

How did I go from a business meeting at Hardin Records to a reverse auction for charity?

Yep, you heard that right.

A reverse auction.

I am literally standing on the edge of a stage in some incognito speakeasy hidden beneath the Vegas streets somewhere between the New York, New York and the Luxor.

I'm sun tanning in a myriad of lights coming from every which direction while these hungry women anxiously wait for me to undo my Armani button down so they can wave their bidding paddles.

Meanwhile, my colleague and best friend (we are going to label the latter part of that sentence ‘alleged’ considering the current shitshow I am in) is standing at the back of the room, a cocky grin on his pretty boy face as he claps and whoops and pumps his fist into the air.

Remind me to demote him when I get back to my office in Charlotte.

“This is Cal!” an overly theatrical woman comes over the speakers. “He’s a business owner, a musician, and a silver fox. Not to mention, he needs some help loosening that tie…”

Christ.

I mean two out of three are true.

I am in the top triad of owners of Hardin Records, and I can play the guitar.

I also played the clarinet in the seventh grade, but I didn’t put that on there.

The other two details?

They improv-ed that and I’m seriously going to pop Noah in the face when we get out of here.

If…I get out of here.

Also, my name is not Cal. It’s Callum. But I figured if I want what happens in Vegas to stay in Vegas I probably need to make sure no one makes the correlation.

Pony comes over the speakers and the women are on their feet, miming the loosening of ties and the undoing of shirts.

Some of them are dancing, as if that’s supposed to encourage me.

I square my chest and let out a persecuted sigh.

The only way out of this is to play along, I suppose.

I’m sure there’s a timer or something.

If I don’t get any bids– I mean who would want to pay to go on a date with a guy who would rather go pop a melatonin back at the hotel than spend another minute on the Vegas strip?

Tell me you’re forty-five without telling me you’re forty-five– maybe they’ll just let me leave.

Tie and shirt and dignity mostly intact.

I pull at the base of my thin, black tie. That’s it.

I merely tug on it, and the women lose their goddamn minds.

I blink.

The last guy was down to his slacks unzipping before they moaned like this, and he looked like a Hemsworth stunt double.

My lips twitch in the hint of amusement. Just a hint.

I firmly stand by my statement that this is one of the dumbest things I’ve ever agreed to do.

Again, I blame Noah. And maybe the shots we did with the bartender at the casino before this. Sly little minx.

Using both hands, I unravel the knot of the tie so both ends are hanging down my chest.

The women act like they’re going to have an orgasm.

The O shape on some of their mouths makes me wonder if some of them already came.

And I gotta admit, the fact that this is too easy is entertaining as hell.

Several of the girls in the front row are literally hopping in place, their breasts bouncing with the movement.

They’re all dressed to the nines, as girls do in Vegas. It doesn’t matter what day of the week it is. It could be a Tuesday, and women are going to act like it’s prom night.

My eyes sweep over the crowd at all the pretty faces. Some of them are mediocre. Most of them have too much makeup. A few of them are attractive, but my standards have never followed that of social media, and they sure as hell don’t align with the majority opinion of people in my line of work.

I work with celebrities and millionaires, and the women that parade through the office have more plastic in their bodies than a recycling bin.

Luckily, I am not looking to go on a date.

I am looking to go to bed, catch an early flight and get back to life. Three days in Vegas is two days too many, in my book.

Still, I play the game. The ego stroke doesn’t suck.

I reach up to loosen a button.

And then I stop.

Right in the middle of the crowd is a cocktail table full of girls that are clearly here for a bachelorette.

I know because one of them– a too skinny blonde with sharp features and enough Maybelline to stock a drug store– is donning a pink satin sash with the word Bride written in cursive.

But that’s not who I am looking at.

Even if I am in Sin City, I’m not the type to ogle at a taken woman.

No, the one that has my mouth dry, my hands frozen and the screaming and music fading to a staticky white noise, is the one to her left. My right.

She’s wearing a red dress that compliments her red hair. Wine, not ginger.

Her features are much fuller, softer, and more feminine.

The way the fabric of her burgundy dress pulls tight around her shape gives the illusion it was painted on by Leonardo Da Vinci himself.

And even from a good fifty feet away, I can see her eyes.

They’re blue. Deep blue like the color the sky is during the witching hour.

Her lips, pink and full are pursed neither smiling nor frowning.

And they locked on me.

The blonde makes the connection, looking frantically between us before she bounces in her chair, clapping and patting the red head’s arm.

A smirk ticks in the corners of my mouth and the girl’s gaze jerks away, like a broken trance, and she blushes fiercely.

Between the pink of her cheeks, her dress and her hair, the woman is straight fire.

And I’ve decided the room is too hot for these clothes…

The music picks up and the room erupts as I undo the button I was working on.

Then the next one down.

And the next.

The woman’s eyes, slowly trace back over to me and I watch her as she watches me undo my shirt completely, revealing the fact that I may be a man over forty, but I take care of my body.

All eight abs of it.

Paddles are flying up and the bids rise in their wake.

But I don’t care about that right now.

Because I am only doing this for her.

No one else is in the room as far as I am concerned.

I shrug out of the shirt and tuck it in the back pocket of my slacks so it’s hanging out like a bar towel.

Then I strut to one side of the stage.

The women are losing their goddamn minds and I’m hearing all kinds of words, everything from Daddy to Silver Fox.

Who knew that was actually a thing?

I look off to the side and see the other guys waiting behind the curtain, shifting in their shoes, ruffling their hair. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they were intimidated.

And they should be.

I’ve got years on these kids.

I glance with only my eyes back at Noah who is cracking up.

Maybe I won’t punch him after all.

Who knew that a couple shots of bourbon and a few catcalls was just what I needed to leave the office behind for all of 7 minutes?

After depriving her of my attention momentarily, I look back at the red head who is now smiling.

It’s a small smile, neither greedy nor desperate.

Amused? I don’t hate that.

My tie is still undone and draped over my neck.

Slowly, I reach up and grab it with one hand.

I tug gently, snaking it down my abs before whipping it free.

Then, and don’t ask me why I know how to do this, I wrap it around my fists and jerk it tight between my two hands and snap it tight.

The women lose it, including the blonde and the rest of the girls at the table.

But not my girl…

She bites her bottom lip with the tease of a smirk and shakes her head discreetly before looking to the side.

But it’s not disinterest.

It’s a game.

A dance.

And tango is my specialty.

With the tie still wrapped around one of my wrists, I saunter in the opposite direction, feeding the crowd on that side of the room with a quarter of a lazy grin, a couple slow turns, a flex, a wink here and there.

Then I make my way back to the center.

I roll my neck, my shoulders squared.

I run my hands through my dark hair, flecked with the aforementioned silver.

I shake it out and lock my eyes on her again.

Meanwhile the bids are soaring.

“Four hundred. Do I hear four twenty-five? Four twenty-five! Any one for four fifty? We have four fifty! Five?? Come on ladies, look at this man. He’s a gentleman if I ever saw one. But if I had to guess, he’s not so tame in the sheets…”

I couldn’t care less what’s going on.

I’m only interested in her.

Slowly, I unwrap the tie from my forearm.

Girls scream, waving their hands in greedy ‘gimme!’ motions.

But my eyes zero in on her, my sights lock.

Then, with a grin on my lips, I drag my tongue over my teeth and sling shot the tie in her direction.

It lands on the floor at her feet and like a loose ball at a football game, there is a literal pile of women grappling over it.

The red head stands up and steps back and I almost leap off the stage to protect her from the mob of rabid girls.

But her ass bumps the table– by the way her ass looks unreal in the bunching of that dress– and it knocks over a drink.

I stand on the stage, watching in what feels like slow motion, as the three second domino effect takes place.

She reaches for her clutch with one hand to save it from the surge of cranberry and vodka.

Then grabs her paddle.

As she swings it through the air, the announcer calls out.

“Five hundred! Sold to the lady in red!”

Oh shit.