Page 5

CHAPTER 5

J ustine wasn’t a big drinker. Never had been.

She’d had an unfortunate Boone’s Farm incident at her friend Sheila’s high school graduation party when she’d been trying so hard to impress Chad Fuller (who was hot back then, but was now doing time for tax evasion) by playing cup stack with him and the rest of the football team. She’d ended up puking in Sheila’s dryer (long story). Consequently, the smell of strawberry wine still made her gag.

She woke up the next morning feeling like the school marching band had paraded across her forehead. Or, more accurately, she felt like a piece of gum on the trombone player’s shoe as the band paraded through a sewer.

After this morning, she realized she’d judged Boone’s Farm too harshly.

She was in hell. She was officially Satan’s whore. Or his come rag or something equally gross.

First of all, no one should ever have to, under any circumstances, wake up with no idea where they were, how they’d gotten there, or why their mouth tasted like sunbaked shit bricks. And Justine was currently experiencing all three.

With a groan that sounded like a reanimated mummy crawling out of a tomb after a thousand years, Justine flipped onto her back and pried one eye open to take stock of her surroundings, just like Criminal Minds had taught her. (Because at this point, the idea that she might’ve been kidnapped and drugged by a serial killer was viable.)

Well, she wasn’t in a basement. That was something, at least.

She was clearly in a high-end hotel room. It was well-lit (much to her headache’s consternation), and elegantly but simply appointed. And the sheets under her butt felt like they were the thousand-thread-count kind she’d never buy for herself, even though she’d love to have them.

It took Herculean effort for Justine to roll to the edge of the bed and lower her feet to the ground. It took an even bigger effort to sit up straight. Her muscles felt like overcooked Ramen, her stomach was about to violently protest movement of any kind, and her head was pounding like a bass drum at a rock concert.

“Need to go to the bathroom again?”

If her reflexes hadn’t been bathed in alcohol, she probably would’ve been startled to realize she wasn’t in the room alone. As it stood, she barely mustered the strength to flick her gaze toward the door.

There, in all his freshly showered, bright-eyed, muscle-y glory was Khill, looking hot as ever in yesterday’s black T-shirt and jeans, with a coffee in his giant hand. She was torn between relief and embarrassment.

First of all, given how she felt, she must look like Death had taken a few whacks at her, and here he was, looking like a walking wet dream. That was embarrassing. But she was a little relieved that when this hangover finally killed her, at least she wouldn’t be alone. And also, she knew that coffee was for her because Khill hated coffee.

“I do,” she croaked. “I’m not sure I can get there, though. I think I’m dying.”

He snorted and set the coffee cup on the nightstand. “I’m sure it feels that way.”

Again, under normal circumstances, she might’ve been startled when he scooped her up off the bed like she was weightless and carried her to the bathroom. But since she was dying, all she could do was rest her head on his chest and pray the good Lord would just smite her already.

It really was a miracle that when he set her back on her feet next to the toilet and politely gave her some privacy, she didn’t crumble to the ground like a discarded paper napkin. Even more of a miracle that she managed to pee without toppling off the toilet and falling into the shower. Angels should’ve been singing when she found the strength to wipe, flush, and stagger over to the sink to wash her hands. She was pretty proud of herself, if she was being honest.

Until she looked into the mirror above the sink.

The shriek she let out, followed by the sound of Khill kicking the door in and glancing around wildly for whatever threat made her scream, probably echoed through the entire hotel.

“What’s wrong?” Khill asked, still searching the tiny bathroom for intruders. “What the hell happened?”

Justine was too busy staring at her reflection, mouth agape, red-rimmed eyes slow blinking at the horror.

She usually slept in a bonnet, because if she didn’t, her curls ended up looking like she’d been electrocuted. Today was no different.

Every article of clothing she owned would fit in the bags under her eyes and her skin was two shades lighter than milk. Seriously, she looked like she was method-acting her way through an episode of The Walking Dead .

It took a while, but she was finally able to ask, “What. The. Fuck. Happened. Last. Night?”

He frowned at her in the mirror. “You don’t remember?”

“I remember…tequila. And the Monster Match. There was a werewolf named…Dusty or something.”

Khill’s frown got even frownier. “David.”

“Yeah. Then you were there, and we were driving to…”

Images pinged around in her poor, battered brain. Bright lights. Slot machines. Show girls.

“Are we in…Vegas?”

He ran a hand through his hair, looking relieved. “Yeah. You remember.”

“Kind of.” She swallowed, even though her mouth was drier than the Serengeti. “We played slots.”

He nodded. “And drank more tequila.”

“There was…karaoke, wasn’t there?”

This time, he chuckled. “Yep. Pretty sure they removed I Will Survive from the playlist as soon as you got off the stage.”

Justine cringed. Why, oh why, did she have to remember that ? “We drank there too, didn’t we?”

“Definitely.”

She was damn lucky she hadn’t blacked out. And that she spent the night drinking and gambling with someone honorable who wouldn’t try to…

Giving herself a quick, panicky pat down, she was relieved to realize her dress, underwear, and shapewear were still intact. She had not been naked at any point during the evening. No way could she have gotten all that shit back on while she was drunk. Hell, she’d barely been able to peel everything down far enough to pee.

Khill raised a brow at the obvious relief on her face. “If we’d had sex,” he said, his already deep voice going deeper on the word sex, “you’d remember.”

Of that, she had no doubt. She was more afraid that she’d propositioned him in a drunken stupor and thrown her panties at him or something. She knew he was too much of a gentleman to take advantage of a woman who couldn’t consent.

And there was, of course, the fact that she’d already thrown herself at him and he’d turned her down.

But all in all, it would appear that even though she felt like there was more alcohol in her blood than plasma and there was a raging mosh pit in her skull, she had escaped her adventures in Vegas relatively unscathed.

Well, except for her hair. That looked like a pair of squirrels had tried to nest on her head. After fucking for a few hours. In a tornado.

Lifting a hand to try to finger comb her wild curls into submission, something caught her eye. Something glittery. Something expensive looking. Something that weighed heavily on her finger.

Her left ring finger.

Justine’s grandfather had been a jeweler. She used to spend a few days a week with him after school when she was a middle schooler, and because he wasn’t one to let anyone freeload, she’d learned a lot to help him out in his shop. She knew all about cut, clarity, color, and carat sizes. So, she could say with absolute certainty that the ring she was wearing cost more than her car.

First of all, it was an emerald-cut, 1.25 carat pavé diamond. The band was platinum and covered with micro-pavé diamonds. It was nothing short of stunning.

Honestly, the only thing she didn’t know about this ring was why it was on her finger.

Her saucer-wide eyes lifted from the ring back up to catch Khill’s gaze—his somewhat guilty looking gaze—in the mirror.

“Oh,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah. I know you were worried about how much the ring cost. But like I said, there’s no reason to. The guy who handles my money is a genius, so I have plenty of it. Or, if you want something less flashy, we can do that, too.”

She swallowed hard. Tried to, at least. It was difficult when her throat was so dry. “Um…I’m more concerned with why I have the ring at the moment.”

He frowned. “Don’t you remember anything about…the ceremony?”

Ceremony . The room spun. Sweat broke out on her brow. She remembered…laughing. Lots of laughter. There was also a little white chapel and…a dude dressed up in a 1970s Elvis costume. Khill grinning down at her as he promised to love and cherish her until…

Holy shit kabobs.

“We got married,” she whispered in horror.

In answer, he held up his own left hand, drawing her gaze to the plain platinum band on his ring finger.

Justine spun on her heel and barely made it to the toilet before spewing twelve hours’ worth of tequila (and most of her dignity) into the bowl.

Khill let out a sigh so deep it sounded like it came from the depths of his soul as he leaned down and gathered her hair for her. “Perfect,” he muttered.