Page 8 of Hitched to my Boss (Viva Las… Oh, Sh!t #2)

This is exactly the kind of situation I've learned to handle in my career. Drunk men at professional events who mistake politeness for interest, who think conference settings give them license to behave inappropriately.

"No, thank you." I try to step around him, but he moves to block me again.

"Playing hard to get? I like that." His hand reaches for my waist, and I'm preparing to make it clear that his attention is unwelcome when a familiar voice cuts through the ambient noise.

"Is there a problem here?"

Jason appears beside me, and everything about his demeanor has changed.

Gone is the nervous mountain man who was worried about social interaction.

In his place is someone who radiates quiet menace, the kind of controlled danger that comes from military training and absolute certainty about his ability to handle threats.

The drunk man looks up at Jason's height and breadth and takes an automatic step back. "Just talking to the lady, friend. No harm done."

"The lady doesn't look interested in talking." Jason's voice is calm and conversational, but there's steel underneath. "Maybe you should find someone who is."

"Look, buddy, I don't know who you think you are..."

"I'm her boyfriend," Jason says, his arm sliding around my waist with proprietary confidence. "And you're bothering her."

The drunk man laughs. “Boyfriend? You?”

Before I can process what's happening, Jason's hand cups my face and he's kissing me.

Not a gentle, fake-for-show kiss, but something hungry and claiming and absolutely devastating.

His mouth moves against mine with a confidence that makes my knees weak, and I can taste champagne and something uniquely him.

My hands fist in his suit jacket, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away like any rational person would do.

The kiss deepens, and suddenly I don't care that we're in a crowded ballroom, that this started as a protective gesture, that kissing my client is the most unprofessional thing I've ever done.

All I care about is the way Jason's mouth feels against mine, like he's been wanting to do this since the moment we met.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Jason's eyes are dark, pupils dilated, and there's something in his expression that has nothing to do with fake relationships and everything to do with real desire.

"Didn't know she was taken," the drunk man mutters, already backing away. "Sorry, man."

He disappears into the crowd, leaving Jason and me standing close enough that I can feel his heart beating against my arm. My lips still tingle from his kiss, and I'm trying to remember why maintaining professional boundaries seemed so important five minutes ago.

"Thank you," I say, though I don't step away from his protective embrace. "Though I could have handled him."

"I know you could have." His arm tightens slightly around my waist. "But you shouldn't have to."

The simple statement, combined with the way he's still holding me like I belong to him, does something dangerous to my equilibrium. This is supposed to be professional support, a business arrangement between consultant and client.

But the way Jason is looking down at me right now has nothing to do with business and everything to do with the attraction that's been building between us since that coffee spill in his kitchen.

"Well," a voice behind us says, amused and approving. "I definitely need to meet this young man."

We turn to find Marcus Hartwell watching us with interest, along with Dr. Martinez and two other conference attendees who'd witnessed the entire exchange.

"Jason Wallace," Hartwell says, extending his hand. "I'm Marcus Hartwell. After watching you handle that situation, I'm even more interested in our conversation tomorrow."

Jason shakes his hand, his other arm still around my waist. "Mr. Hartwell. Looking forward to discussing your wolf situation."

"I'm sure you are. But right now, I'm more interested in buying you and your girlfriend a drink." Hartwell signals the bartender. "Any man who steps up like that is someone I want to know better."

And just like that, we're in. The protective boyfriend moment has accomplished what hours of strategic networking might not have. We've gained Marcus Hartwell's genuine interest and respect.

"Champagne?" Jason asks me, his thumb tracing a small circle on my hip that sends shivers through my entire body.

"Champagne sounds perfect," I manage, trying to ignore the way his touch is affecting my ability to think clearly.

An hour later, after Hartwell has introduced us to half the conference, Jason and I find ourselves at a quiet corner table, multiple empty champagne glasses between us and a warm, dizzy feeling settling over our conversation.

"You're good at this," I tell him, noting how naturally he's been engaging with potential clients once the initial ice was broken. The champagne has made everything feel softer, easier.

"I'm good at talking about my work when people actually want to hear about it." He leans back in his chair, more relaxed than I've ever seen him. "Though I think most of the credit goes to my fake girlfriend's excellent networking skills."

"Your fake girlfriend?" I raise an eyebrow, emboldened by champagne and the way he's been looking at me all evening. "Is that what I am?"

"What would you prefer to be?"

The question hangs between us, and I realize the champagne has made me braver than usual. "I don't know. This whole fake relationship thing is... confusing."

"Confusing how?"

"Because it doesn't feel fake when you touch me." The admission slips out before I can stop it, champagne loosening my carefully maintained professional boundaries. My hand flies to my lips. “I don’t know why I said that.”

Jason's eyes darken. "Maybe because you can tell it doesn't feel fake to me either."

"We should probably slow down on the champagne," I say, even as I reach for my glass again.

"Probably," he agrees, but he's already signaling the waiter for another bottle.

The conversation flows as easily as the alcohol. Jason tells me about Afghanistan, about the mountains that saved him when he came home broken. I tell him about building my career from nothing, about always feeling like I had to be perfect to be worthy of success.

"You know what's funny?" Jason says, his words slightly slurred as he leans closer. "I've spent four years avoiding people, and here you are, making me want to be around someone again."

"That's not funny," I say, my own speech softer than usual. "That's... that's really sweet."

"You're really sweet," he says, reaching for my hand. "And beautiful. Did I mention beautiful?"

"Once or twice." I'm giggling now, which I never do. "You clean up pretty nice yourself, mountain man."

"Mountain man," he repeats, laughing. "I like when you call me that."

The champagne keeps flowing. Somewhere around the fourth bottle, the conversation gets more personal, more honest. Jason admits he's never felt this connected to someone so quickly. I confess I've never broken my no-client rule before, but I keep thinking about breaking it for him.

"We should probably head back," I say, checking my phone and realizing it's past midnight. The numbers on the screen swim a little.

"Probably," Jason agrees, but neither of us moves to leave.

That's when the older couple at the next table leans over, clearly as drunk as we are.

"Hey, are you two lovebirds looking for some Vegas magic tonight?" the woman asks, her words slurring together.

"Vegas magic?" I ask, finding this hilarious for reasons I can't quite identify.

"Wedding chapel, honey! Elvis himself! We just came from there—most romantic thing ever!" She waves her arms enthusiastically. "They do it right there on the Strip!"

Jason and I look at each other, and I can see the same champagne-hazed recklessness in his eyes that I'm feeling.

"Elvis weddings," Jason says slowly, like he's testing the words.

"That's ridiculous," I say, but I'm laughing. "People don't actually do that, do they?"

"The Chapel of Eternal Love!" the man chimes in. "Twenty-four hours, no waiting! We saw the most beautiful ceremony tonight!"

"We should go look," Jason says suddenly. "Just to see. Not to actually..."

"Right, just to see what it's like," I agree, because somehow this makes perfect sense through the champagne haze.

"We're definitely not getting married," I add as we stand, the room tilting slightly.

"Definitely not," Jason agrees, steadying me with his hand on my waist. "We're just... investigating Vegas culture."

"Exactly. Research."

The walk down the Strip is a blur of neon lights and laughter. I keep stumbling in my heels, and Jason keeps catching me, and every time he touches me it sends sparks through my champagne-clouded brain.

"You know," I say as we walk, "you're really handsome. Like, really handsome."

"You're really beautiful," he says back. "Like, the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

"We're drunk," I observe.

"So drunk," he agrees. "But you're still beautiful."

The chapel is exactly as tacky as it should be—pink neon, fake flowers, and an Elvis impersonator who looks nothing like the real thing but sounds surprisingly authentic.

"Y'all looking to get hitched tonight?" Elvis asks, and I burst into giggles.

"We're just looking," I say, but my words are slurring together now.

"Just looking," Jason echoes, his arm tight around my waist.

"Well, darlin', looking's free, but I got a cancellation if you change your mind. Special price tonight, love is in the air!"

We should leave. We should definitely leave. But the champagne has made everything feel like a wonderful idea, and Jason is looking at me like I'm the most amazing thing he's ever seen, and I'm looking at him the same way.

"It would be crazy," I whisper.

"Completely crazy," he agrees.

"We barely know each other."

"We barely know each other."

"But..."

"But?"

The rest is a champagne-soaked blur. Elvis singing "Can't Help Falling in Love." Jason's hands shaking as he slides a ring onto my finger. Me promising to love and cherish someone I met a week ago. Both of us laughing and crying and meaning every word even though we'll barely remember saying them.

The last clear memory I have is Jason carrying me back to the hotel, both of us wearing matching rings and grinning like we've just pulled off the greatest adventure of our lives.

"Mrs. Wallace," he says as the elevator doors close.

"Mr. Wallace," I say back, and then we're kissing like the world might end, and everything fades to champagne-golden happiness.

The rest is darkness, warmth, and the distant knowledge that we've just done something completely insane that we're definitely going to regret in the morning.

But right now, in this moment, it feels like the most perfect mistake we could have possibly made.