Page 13 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

Thursday night (technically Friday morning) — Christopher

O kay. I admit. I should’ve stopped it.

That’s what kept running through my head.

I should’ve stopped it. Said no. Laughed it off. Called a car. Taken her back to the hotel and gotten her a bottle of water and a grilled cheese sandwich and let her pass out like a normal drunk person.

But instead?—

I married her.

Because when Ariana turned to me in that absurd little wedding chapel, with neon roses and a cardboard cutout of Elvis presiding over the guest book, and said, “Let’s do it,” I forgot everything that should have made me say no.

And I remembered everything that ever made me say yes to her.

It started with a cab ride, where she held my hand like it was the only steady thing in the universe. We passed a place with twinkle lights and lots of hearts and a hand-painted sign that said “True Love Wedding Chapel, ” and Ariana pointed and said, “That’s hilarious. Let’s do it.”

I laughed.

She didn’t.

“I’m serious,” she said. “Let’s get married. For the jokes.”

“Ari—”

“What? You scared?” she said, tipping her head, hair falling over one shoulder.

Never.

I told the cab driver to pull over.

Inside, it smelled like coconut air freshener and whatever mistakes were made earlier that day. The woman behind the desk wore a tiara and had a tattoo of dice on her wrist. She asked if we wanted Elvis or Traditional.

Ariana looked at me. “You pick. You’re the groom.”

I forgot how to breathe.

We picked Traditional. There was a silk bouquet and a rhinestone ring and a dude named Kenny with a ponytail, who officiated like he’d done this three hundred times and once for Britney Spears.

“Do you, Christopher Wentworth, take this woman?—”

“Yes.”

“A little quick there,” Kenny muttered.

“I do,” I said again, slower, voice catching in my throat.

Ariana looked up at me, eyes bright, smiling like she meant it. Like there was no past. No heartbreak. No hurt. Just me and her and Vegas and whatever fire we still hadn’t put out.

“Do you, Ariana Remington?—”

“I do,” she said, clearly and loudly, like she was winning something.

And maybe she was. Or maybe I was.

We kissed. Someone clapped. I think Nick tried to FaceTime me at one point. We took a selfie with Kenny. They gave us a certificate in a cardboard frame and a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses.

She looked at me as we stepped outside into the warm, buzzing desert night, barefoot now because she’d lost one heel in the cab. Her hand was in mine.

“You always were trouble,” she said, slurring a little, eyes glassy.

“You always liked that,” I said.

And then she leaned her head on my shoulder.

By the time we got back to the hotel, she was asleep in the cab.

I carried her up to her room. Got the key card out of her purse.

She didn’t wake up when I laid her on the bed.

Didn’t stir when I pulled the blanket over her or when I set the water bottle and Tylenol on the nightstand.

I sat there in the dim glow of the hotel lamp, staring at the cheap little gold ring on my finger.

I’d married her. A slow smile spread across my face.

She wouldn’t remember. But I would.

And I wasn’t sure if that made it better. Or worse.