Page 2 of Accidentally Hitched (Unintentionally Yours #1)

Amanda

F ive hundred dollars, going once, going twice, and SOLD! To the redhead whose face tells us she’s never had a one-night stand in her life!

Okay so the chick on stage didn’t actually say that but I’m pretty sure my face IS in fact that readable.

It’s also currently the color of my dress (red as a rose) and my hair (also, red as a rose), which speaks for itself.

I’m at a reverse auction (you know, women bid on hot men for charity and in turn, get a date with the hunk of their choice) and somehow, I raised my paddle on the highest bid of the night.

As the next guy saunters out onto the stage, I can’t help but ask myself how I got here, although I know the answer to that question.

My sister is getting married.

We are talking about my younger, blonder, skinnier, more reckless, more lively, less maid of honor for life little sister Kate.

Think 27 Dresses.

Except I am not five foot nine and James Marsden is nowhere to be found.

I am, in a word, the always a bridesmaid girl.

Yet tonight, during my sister’s bachelorette party, which happens to be in Las Vegas, after accepting shots from every guy at every bar we’ve stumbled into, Kate looked right at me, pointed a tipsy finger and said, “We need to get you laid.”

I laughed it off, as you do when you’re the older sister who has spent a lifetime taking care of your baby sister who always seems to find never ending rabbit holes of trouble to get into.

So, I guess the real question is, what am I, the sensible older sister, still doing here?

And the answer to that is, Kate is dragging me to meet a man I don’t even know and just spent an ungodly amount of slot machine winnings in hopes of fulfilling the aforementioned goal.

“Kate!” I yell as quietly as possible as she tugs me through the crowd. “Slow down. Where are we going?”

“To meet your man!” she cries out enthusiastically.

“My man? I don’t even know the guy.”

But Kate is not listening.

As she tugs me to the backside of the stage where said man is probably working on getting dressed again, it’s obvious that my bride-to-be sister has one goal and one goal only.

“Well, you’re about to get to know him. And well if I had to guess,” she shimmies her shoulders before giving me a once over. “Now let’s just spruce up your wiley hair and I think you could use some more lip gloss.”

“Kate, seriously. I don’t have time for this. I have so much going on and–”

“Let me guess. You’re thinking about work,” she says while pulling make-up out of her bag like rabbits out of a hat.

“So, what if I am?” I ask without my lips touching as she glosses them up with something that tastes like pomegranate.

“All you do is think about work.”

“Well sorry for trying to make something of myself. But I’m starting a new job on Monday. A really, really good job. I need to focus on that.”

“And you can focus on that. After you go on a date with a really hot silver fox who was fucking you with his eyes the entire time he peacocked around that stage. Seriously, Mandy. I don’t know why, but you out of everyone in this room got his attention. And now, he’s yours.”

“I don’t want him to be mine,” I argue. “He’s a stranger.”

“A hot stranger who auctioned himself off. You’d be insulting him if you didn’t go out with him. That and wasting a lot of money.”

As much as I hate to admit it, I can’t deny it.

Because this man is not like the others.

For one, he was fully clothed to start with. While most of them came slinking onto the stage shirtless (one of them literally walked out in nothing but black boxer-briefs), this guy, this man was just one jacket short of a three-piece suit.

Not only that, but he’s older than the others.

Much older.

But not in a bad way…

His thick, dark hair was styled, not messed, unlike the boys that preceded him. And as he turned his head to survey the room, flecks of silver caught in the overhead lights.

His jawline wasn’t cocky, it was confident. Mature.

But his body.

His body was something to be reckoned with. Beneath the fitted Armani suit was the hint of a solid torso, tight from disciplined routine.

And don’t get me started on his forearms.

I may not be a girl who gets around much but I am a slut for a decent pair of forearms.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Kate runs her tongue across her upper teeth with a smile.

“I am thinking about the predicament you got me into,” I huff with rosy cheeks. And I know she knows I am lying. And bothered. Fuck sister to sister telepathy. “I don’t even remember his name.”

“It was Cal,” she says straightening my dress. And by straightening I mean, she is tugging it down in the front to further expose my tits that are already popping.

Cal? That’s not his real name. It doesn’t fit him. It’s not bold enough. Cal sounds like the name of a fuckboy, trust fund baby.

This man has the chiseled jaw and stone eyes of a man who has worked for every brick in his empire.

I wonder how rough his hands are…

And just like that, I am thinking of him again.

His skin is a tan, but not from the sun. It’s a natural olive. And unlike the waxed man-babies before him, there’s a soft patch of hair on his stony pecks that trails down south.

Unpopular opinion: I do love a subtle happy trail…

He’s also got patchwork tattoos, on his shoulders, on his chest, one on his ribs, and what appears to be raven wings on his back.

“You’re doing it again,” Kate practically sings, pulling me from my daydream again.

“I am not!” I snap.

“Say what you want, but he’s coming this way.”

I turn around, maybe too quickly.

A guy with long, shaggy hair in a leather jacket and faded skinny jeans is grinning a nasty boy grin and headed right for us.

Behind him, is Cal.

His shirt is back on, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s almost too small.

It spreads over his chest with more than the necessary effort, showcasing his pecs and reminding me of what they look like when they’re bare under the stage lighting.

His gaze is intense.

If I had to guess, this wasn’t his choice either.

Yet here we are.

“Hello, hello,” the guy with the long hair says, grinning at me and winking at Kate before turning his full attention back to me. “I believe my friend here won a date with you.”

“I believe so,” I state.

I’m having a hard time making eye contact with him.

His presence in front of me is so…dominating.

Like he’s taking up the whole room just by standing there.

He smells like sweat and caramel and the combination alone makes me feel the need to wet my lips with my tongue.

His eyes flicker to my mouth.

Jesus Christ.

“You waved your paddle,” he says, and his voice is everything I ever wanted it to be and more. Gritty, low, unamused.

Why is a grumpy man so enticing?

I always saw myself with a funny guy, an easy-going guy, not someone whose presence makes my skin feel tight around my body.

“It was an accident,” I say because I’m me.

“Wow,” Kate laughs awkwardly. “Well, this is going…”

“Fucking fantastic,” the guy with the long hair laughs. “I’m Noah. And I think this is awesome. You two have fun.”

“Where are you going, Noah?” Cal looks suddenly disturbed.

Not panicked. Not worried. He doesn’t actually strike me as the type of man who gets ruffled too easily.

Even between him and young Johnny Depp here, I’m thinking he’s the man in charge.

“I will be at the Glass Pony,” Noah says.

“Isn’t that a strip club?” Kate asks.

“Yes ma’am. When in Rome, right?”

She smiles and he smiles back and with that I am done here.

And by the look I catch on Cal’s face, so is he.

“You hungry?” he asks.

“Yes,” I answer. Though mostly, I am just ready to not be here anymore.

If we can’t go back to the room and I have to go on an obligatory date with America’s Next Top Male Model, 45 and Up Edition, I want to get it over with.

As we make our way out of the speakeasy I can feel the stares coming from every which direction.

But mostly I feel his presence.

It’s that…hard.

We step out into the night air, which is hotter than the casino air but more refreshing in some way and make our way down the strip.

“This is nice,” I say, and he looks at me. “Just being out of there I mean. I never really wanted to…I mean my sister was very insistent on…”

“It wasn’t my idea either,” he admits, and I actually smile.

“Well, that’s a relief. I’d be a little hesitant if I knew you were actually a fuckboy.”

A sound comes from his face…a snort? A laugh? I’m not sure because he isn’t actually smiling, though I get a sense of amusement from somewhere deep inside.

“My name’s not Cal,” he says as we wait to cross to the other side of the street.

“No?”

“No. It’s Callum. No one calls me Cal.”

“Callum,” I say softly and his eyes, a dark shade of bluish green, dart over to me for a moment.

Suddenly I am getting flashbacks of him looking at me from the stage.

It’s hard to believe that that wasn’t some weird made-up dream.

That the man who was playing footsy with my eyes in a crowded room is now about to take me out to dinner.

In Sin City of all places.

“What’s your name?” he asks as we start to walk. It suddenly occurs to me that I haven’t told him.

I could tell him a fake name. I could say anything I want.

But for some reason, I don’t feel like lying about it.

They say you can be anyone you want when you’re in Vegas.

But I find myself wanting to be me…in Vegas.

“Amanda.”

“That’s pretty,” he says and his hand falls onto my lower back, ushering me through a crowd of oncoming drunken college boys.

It’s not pretty. It’s plain. It’s everyone’s name born in the decade I was born in. A decade that makes me young-ish to him.

“What are you hungry for, Amanda?” he asks. “We could go anywhere you want.”

I look around, fully aware that Vegas has everything from roof top bars to Chilis.

Yet something about sitting at a restaurant, at any capacity, seems too…stuffy. We may have been forced on this date, but it doesn’t mean we have to play it out like puppets.

“Okay don’t make fun of me,” I start with a smile.