Page 7 of Accidentally Hitched (Unintentionally Yours #1)

Callum

I wake up to the smell of my own breath.

Margaritas.

“Fuck…”

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a hangover. I can usually hold my liquor. And I don’t typically drink enough to get hammered either. But last night…last night I did a lot of things I don’t usually do.

The shots.

The auction.

Jesus Christ.

The auction alone tops my list of things I wouldn’t admit to doing even with a gun pressed to my head.

It was wild.

And speaking of wild.

Visions of Amanda flash in front of my eyes, eyes that feel like they’re going to pop out of my head.

I need water. And Aspirin. And a cold shower.

I stumble out of bed and pull back the black out curtains that I drew last night after fucking her in front of the windows. The sunlight practically punches me in the face, and I immediately regret it.

“What did I do?” I mumble to myself, wiping my hands down my face.

Maybe…I didn’t. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe I did more shots than I thought at the speakeasy and blacked out after that. The auction seems too crazy in hindsight to be real. Maybe it wasn’t.

And neither was she.

She was most definitely unreal.

From her hair to that dress to the body underneath the dress.

But I realize that even I in my wildest, most unhinged fantasies couldn’t make her up.

I’m not poetic enough to create a heroine like her.

That and her lace panties are still on the floor where I tossed them after flipping her onto her knees.

Jesus Christ.

So, it happened.

I danced on a stage, went on a date with a girl who raised her paddle on accident.

I pad over to the counter and grab a bottle of painkillers, popping a couple and swallowing them dry. Then I turn to the coffee maker and shove a pod in the hatch and place a mug underneath.

When I turn around, I stop.

There, on the edge of the counter is a photo.

I reach for it, but I know what it is before I even look at it.

The chapel.

Fuck me, that’s right.

We pretended to get married.

“Fucking hell…” I shake my head and toss it back on the counter. But when I do, it lands face down. I narrow my eyes. On the back, printed in stamped letters is the name: Insta-Love Wedding Chapel.

Against my judgement, I look it up. The crazy “minister’s” mug pops up along with a bunch of BS about being ordained and owning the least busy walk-in wedding chapel in Vegas. There’s some slander against Elvis and something about a thirty-dollar special.

But I stop, scrolling back up.

“Ordained.”

I repeat the word several times, silently praying it will change the definition.

But it means what it means.

Though…that’s only true if we signed a?—

“Oh shit.”

The papers.

Amanda has the papers.

The coffee maker beeps but I am too busy pacing the floor to care about it right now. I am sober. My head is clear. And I am panicking.

Because if he was ordained, and those papers were legit, it wasn’t pretend.

I am married to Amanda.

Amanda who?

Suddenly, my phone rings. Noah.

“Hey,” I wipe my hand down my mouth as my mind races in a thousand different directions.

“He lives! Jesus, brother, you had me worried. I was blowing you up all night.”

“I was with Amanda.” I reach for my coffee, trying to sound casual.

Like it was just a post auction date. Like we went to an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet at one of the hotels and used our voucher.

Like we kissed but aren’t gonna tell and I came back to the hotel and had a long, peaceful, sleep ALONE in my king-sized bed.

Like I didn’t accidentally marry a girl I don’t even know all because we both like music and hate shallow people.

“All night?” he asks but I don’t answer so he goes on. “Well, I take it that went well. Cheers bro! But also, where the fuck are you? Our flight boards in less than two hours.”

“Fuck,” I let out, scrambling to get my shit together.

I don’t even have time to shower so I just grab a clean pair of slacks and another button down and head for the door.

Then I stop.

The photo and the panties are still on the counter.

After teeter-tottering for a second, I grab both and shove them in my bag.

“I love the smell of poker chips in the morning.”

Noah grins as he evaluates the cards in his hand.

It’s 9am and somehow I managed not to miss the flight to Charlotte.

Before, I thought it couldn’t come soon enough.

Now, as I nurse the worst hangover I've had since I was 29, I'd rather be buried in the hotel sheets. Or six feet under. And yet here we are, playing a game of poker on the plane trays because the man gets fidgety if his hands aren’t busy. He’d pull a Les Paul out right now if it was allowed.

I look down at my cards. A pair of deuces.

Perfect bluffer’s cards. The way this goof is YOLOing through the game, I might have a chance.

The dude should be wearing a JUST HAPPY TO BE HERE shirt instead of the same clothes he had on last night, disheveled from the evening's events, whatever those were.

Not that I can say anything.

“You sure are a wet mop considering we are in Vegas, and you just got laid,” he says, laying down a card.

I follow suit and trade in one of mine. A seven. What is it with sevens?

“Not only that but we are signing a good artist right now. Kid’s got potential. Even if he does sing through his nose.”

He’s referring to the artist we signed only hours before our crazy night out.

“Do you know how old you sound right now?” I ask.

It’s funny because Noah is younger than me by about ten years.

We just celebrated his thirty-fifth. By the amount of alcohol he consumed, you’d think it was his twenty-first. Either way, he’s my closest colleague at Hardin Records and that’s saying a lot considering I work with my twin brother, Avery, as well.

“Seriously, Callum. Music is riding a wave of trend and dollar signs right now, all gassed up on boys who don’t enunciate and girls who think sing-talking about sex in the backseat of a car is classy.

It’s all about shock factor. But if we do a little gardening, we can find some real roses in the weeds. Show me your cards.”

“I fold,” I shake my head. I gotta hand it to him, the guy is nothing if not poetic.

It’s the reason I insist to my father, Hiram Hardin, CEO of Hardin records, and Avery, that he comes on every business trip, especially if we are scouting new artists.

While I am head of that department, overseeing agents, writers and signing new people, Noah is my front man.

Even though I have a nose for what will sell, Noah has a heart for what people will love.

I guess you could say we complement each other– that is when we aren’t in Vegas and he’s not trying to get me to loosen my tie.

“I know the kid is good,” I agree. “And that’s why I signed the papers today. But I do miss the old days…”

“Ah yes, the days when music was about music and not people promoting the idea of music. I agree with you, but this is a tiring conversation. The industry is all controlled by a man behind the curtain. And you know who that man is?”

I know where he is going with this, but I don’t have the energy to entertain it. I pinch the bridge of my nose and check the time. Two more hours.

“Your father. And you know who can change that once Hiram Hardin is dethroned?”

“I can’t change the world, Noah. No matter how much we want it to change.”

“Maybe not the world. But the face of music we do have some say in.”

“I need another drink,” I mutter.

“That’s the spirit!” Noah waves down the stewardess.

“No spirit. Just a migraine.”

“You mean a hangover. How good was this night of yours? She was a cute thing. That red dress was…” Noah bites his lip and makes an “okay” sign with his hand.

Oh, you know. I just got drunk and got married to a girl because she had a cute laugh…

“I couldn’t tell you. I can’t remember half of it,” I lie.

“Damn brother. You really are old.”

And stupid.