Page 9

Stella

I think I might be dying. Either that, or it’s the hangover from hell.

My eyes aren’t even open, and yet there’s a pounding in my temples from the light seeping through my lids. My stomach churns painfully, still debating whether whatever I consumed in the past twelve hours is going to come up and out. And my feet ache so badly that there’s no way I didn’t do some serious running last night.

When I finally work up the nerve to face the day, I immediately notice I’m not alone. I’m lying next to Thomas in his rumpled bed, the white duvet bunched up under his head like a pillow. I couldn’t say where the actual pillows are, but they’re certainly not up here with us, unlike the assortment of take-out boxes, a half-empty bottle of Maker’s 46, and a wilted bouquet of flowers. It’s quite the array, but I’m too unwell to worry about it.

I don’t even know why I’m still here . My entire plan last night was to hook up and then get the hell out of Dodge. Clearly the latter didn’t happen, and another quick assessment of my body reveals that he definitely didn’t stick his dick anywhere in me. I’m certain of that, because with what I felt through his pants at the strip club, there’s no way I wouldn’t be dealing with the aftermath today.

But if we didn’t have sex, then why am I here when I should be back in my own hotel room with my cheek on a silk pillowcase?

My head throbs and spins, prompting me to close my eyes until I stop feeling like I’m on a rickety rowboat in the middle of the sea. I’m tempted to go back to sleep and pray I won’t feel so spectacularly horrible in a few hours. And I would do it too, if this bed wasn’t so damn uncomfortable. I’m betting that’s what woke me in the first place.

I force my eyes open again to check if there’s one of those take-out boxes underneath me, but as I feel around and pull out a bottle of Tabasco from under my hips, I find something stranger.

I’m wearing clothes. Like, my full outfit from last night—dress, underwear, even a bra if the irritation around my ribs is anything to go by. It’s extremely odd because, one, I would never get into bed wearing my outside clothes. And two, you’d have to pay me a billion dollars to wear a bra for longer than strictly necessary, let alone sleep in one. Even if we did just get drunk and pass out here last night, there’s no way I wouldn’t have whipped that bad boy off the second we stepped inside his suite, whether we were going to have sex or not.

Thomas is also completely dressed. The tux is wrinkled beyond belief, sure, but every element of it is on him, including a very crooked bow tie. He wasn’t even this put-together when we left dinner last night.

“What the fuck,” I croak, loud enough that Thomas’s eyelids flutter.

I’m too scared to move, still not sure if I’m going to puke, especially when he groans and flops over onto his back, causing the mattress to shake. It feels more like an earthquake than the slight tremor it actually is.

“I feel like hell,” he mumbles, voice scratchy from sleep. I might find it sexy if I weren’t too busy fighting to figure out what happened.

He lifts his hands to scrub at his face, bleary gaze finding me when he looks over a moment later. His eyes are unnaturally blue in the morning light, or maybe it’s just because they’re framed by red rims, but either way, they’re beautiful. He’s beautiful, even while hungover, with his hair sticking up in every direction and a light layer of scruff on his jaw.

When he smiles, my stomach flip-flops in a way I can’t attribute to what I drank last night. It’s easy and personal, the corners of his eyes crinkling just a little. But then he squints at me in confusion, eyes dragging up and down my body before looking at his own.

“Why are we dressed?” he asks.

I blow out a breath and lift a hand to swipe under my right eye, cringing when it comes away covered in mascara. “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me that.”

I go to pull my other arm out from where I have it curled under my head, but something soft and sticky flops onto my face. If I had better control over my body, I might have screamed and batted it away. Right now, all I can do is grunt and slap haphazardly at my face, the scent of a sickly sweet bakery item assaulting my senses.

The offending thing lands between Thomas and me, leaving us staring at…a doughnut. If the chocolate streaks on my pinkie and middle finger are anything to go by, it was on my ring finger before falling off my hand.

This time it’s Thomas’s turn to say, “What the fuck.”

I have so many questions that I’m not even sure where to start. Actually, no, I have so many that I don’t want to ask any of them. I don’t want the answers. Whatever happened is Last Night Stella’s business. This Morning Stella doesn’t want to know what led to her wearing a chocolate-iced doughnut, complete with rainbow sprinkles, like a ring.

“I’m not going to ask,” I finally say when I look at Thomas, and he nods slowly, apparently feeling the same way.

Thankfully, my stomach has settled some, and I assess how the rest of me is holding up. My bladder is dangerously full, and I’m weirdly sticky in various places—gross—but those are things a trip to the bathroom and a long shower can fix. I’m just hoping that whatever’s on me didn’t get in my hair, because I do not have time to get it redone before the wedding.

Oh God, the wedding . A glance at the clock on the bedside table tells me it’s only a little after eight a.m., which means I have a solid six hours to recover before I’m expected to be in Janelle’s suite with a photographer up in our faces. I might have escaped being in the bridal party, but I still promised to be there for her today, and I plan to make good on that oath, even if I have to drag my half-dead ass to her. As long as my parents, my aunts, or any other family members going to the wedding don’t hunt me down before then, I should be able to keep this drunken rendezvous my dirty little secret—especially if Thomas and I agree to never speak to each other again.

It takes an inhuman amount of strength to roll to the side of the bed, and I nearly cheer when I manage the slow trek to the bathroom. I do my best to clean myself up, making myself presentable enough to hopefully do a walk of shame back to my hotel without getting too many concerned looks. I’m not particularly optimistic, though.

Thomas has made it out of bed by the time I leave the bathroom, sitting in the green velvet wingback chair by the doors to the balcony and looking like he might pass out if he has to move any farther. His phone is in his hand, though he glances up when he hears me come in.

“I guess we should talk about what happened last night,” he says, a little stiltedly, like this really isn’t a conversation he wants to be having.

He’s not the only one, especially since I can’t even remember anything past leaving the strip club together. “Don’t think there’s much to talk about,” I answer, scanning the floor for my clutch and shoes so I can get out like I should have hours ago.

“We…didn’t have sex, right?” he asks, somehow even more awkward this time.

“Right,” I confirm.

Couldn’t tell him why, though, and it seems like he can’t tell me either, but that’s fine. I don’t need to dwell on any of this, even if my blood flows a little hotter at the memory of his fingers sinking into me, wishing I could have had more. But that’s not happening now that the time and opportunity—and liquid courage—have come and gone.

He nods. “Okay. I—Okay.”

I’ll leave him to process however he needs to because that is not my problem. The only thing I need to worry about is where the hell my phone is. I’m sure I have a million missed calls and texts, and I’m betting 90 percent of them are from Mika. As far as I know, I didn’t make good on my promise to FaceTime her last night, so I won’t be surprised if she thinks I’m dead in a ditch.

My back is to Thomas as I search the bedroom, picking up the duvet and moving take-out boxes, even squatting down to peer under the bed. It isn’t until he inhales sharply that I look over, finding him frowning at his phone as he scrolls.

“I think I know why you had a doughnut on your finger.”

I stand and slowly turn toward him, trying to keep the world from spinning. “You do?”

“Yeah.” He holds up his phone for me to look at, expression shifting to something unreadable. “Apparently, I proposed to you with it.”

I blink, digesting his words, but they still don’t make sense even after a few beats. “Excuse me?”

He exhaustedly motions me closer. I have to squint at the screen once I’m standing in front of him to make out the blurry figures in the photo he’s showing me, but…he wasn’t kidding. There I am, proudly displaying the chocolate-iced doughnut on my left hand while Thomas beams up at me from down on one knee. We’re both clearly shit-faced, and funnily enough, I look happier there than I did in any of my actual engagement photos.

I swallow hard, debating whether I should be freaked out that I don’t remember any of this happening or amused since it’s harmless enough.

“I know I’m a catch, but I didn’t think you’d fall in love with me that quickly,” I joke, trying to push down my rapidly growing discomfort. But this is as good a time as any to reestablish what this encounter was—or at least was meant to be. “I’m flattered, but I think we’re better off leaving this as a one-night thing.”

Fun as our conversations were—and as good as he is with his hands—I’m not in a position to get wrapped up in anything. I can’t imagine he has time for it either as a professional athlete.

Thomas nods, turning his phone back around and swiping across the screen. “Absolutely, I know we both have—hmm.”

I freeze, not liking that hmm . “What was that for?”

His parliament smile makes its first appearance this morning. “Well,” he says lightly before clearing his throat and glancing back up at me. Something akin to panic is in his eyes. “It seems that last night we mutually decided we wanted forever instead of one night.”

I’m standing so still that I’m not even breathing. “I’m going to need you to explain, Thomas.”

Again, he turns his phone screen to me, and this time I grab it out of his hands. I have to see this up close to make sure his concern isn’t misplaced. But the longer I stare, the less what I’m looking at makes sense.

“We got married,” I hear myself say, even though I don’t feel my lips form the words. “By Black Elvis.”

“Yes.” Thomas confirms what I didn’t know was my worst fear, but it’s now at the top of the Shit That Scares Stella list. “It would appear we did.”

I keep staring at the snapshot of us standing at the front of a chapel, grinning at each other as we hold hands. A dark-skinned man in an Elvis costume—complete with a swoopy wig and sunglasses—next to us with a Bible in one hand and a guitar in the other.

My stomach is churning dangerously again. “This…this can’t be real,” I mumble, even though, logically, I understand this wasn’t faked. “It’s gotta be some sort of AI trash.”

I swipe to the next photo, then the next, and the next. It’s more of Thomas and me at the altar, us with our lips pressed together, me joyously waving a bouquet of flowers in the air. It’s the same bouquet that’s wilting on the bed.

Hand shaking, I tap on the screen, bringing up the details of the latest photo. According to the time stamp, it was taken fifteen minutes past midnight. Thomas and I left the strip club just after ten, which means there are at least two hours of mayhem unaccounted for between then and this photo being taken.

I force myself to stop and breathe, warding off the anxiety that’s threatening to throw me into a full fetal-position panic attack.

“Okay, so it’s real,” I finally say, surprised by how level my voice sounds. “And it’s not great. But it’s not a legal marriage.”

The relief that slides across Thomas’s face is almost comical, but neither of us would dare laugh right now. “Are you sure?” he presses.

I nod as I hand his phone back. “Extremely. Don’t forget that I’ve already been through this whole song and dance. For a marriage to be legal and valid, you have to get a marriage license before the ceremony. And considering we did this way past the working hours of any government agency that would issue a license, we definitely didn’t get one.”

His head falls back against the chair, a heavy breath escaping him. “Oh, thank God .” I worry about the integrity of his neck with the way his head snaps up a moment later, eyes wide. “Not that—not that I don’t think you’d make a wonderful wife, or that I’m pleased you’ve had another wedding go horribly awry, but—”

“Please stop,” I interrupt, lifting my hands to rub my aching temples. “I know what you mean, and I agree.”

This could have been disastrous for both of us. Honestly, it still might be if anyone else knows about it, legal marriage or not. Clearly there were witnesses—Black Elvis, whoever took those photos, and anyone else at the chapel—but I have to hope they’re a discreet bunch who won’t snitch on us to the press. If I thought the headlines before were bad…Fuck, I don’t want to think about what these might be.

“I can’t believe we did this,” I go on, because what the hell possessed me to do something so ridiculous? All I wanted was to get railed. How did everything shift from sex to marriage?

“I guess we were inspired. And very drunk.” He pauses, eyes drifting to the bed as he considers something. “I’m guessing that bottle of whiskey was the culprit.”

A memory punches its way to the front of my mind when I look at the bed again, one of Thomas and me stumbling into his room, kissing desperately and tearing at clothes. If my shattered brain isn’t lying to me, then I definitely ditched my dress and got to see his abs up close and personal after he shed his shirt. Oh God, I think I even licked them. But if I was already down on my knees, then why didn’t it go any further than that?

The answer comes more as a feeling than a memory—disappointment. It didn’t go further because neither of us had a condom.

Thomas must get hit with the realization as well, because a wash of color spreads across his cheekbones. “We went out to get condoms, didn’t we?” He pauses, waiting for another thought to fully form. “And…tacos?”

He seems unsure about the last bit, but I’m suddenly not. “We eventually did. But before we went out, we called down to the concierge to see if they’d bring us condoms.” I was half naked, after all, and Thomas was sporting an obscenely large hard-on. Not exactly a sight for public consumption. “And I was hungry, so we ordered food too. I wanted tacos, but you were the one who insisted on the whiskey.” Despite that, I’m almost certain I dared him to do shots with me. Shit.

His expression is pinched, drawing something from the depths of his mind and ignoring my attempt to lay the blame at his feet. “I must have confused the concierge with my combination condom and taco request, because they sent extra condiments with the food.”

Well, that would explain the container filled with a selection of salsas.

“So we ate, drank, got dressed, and went out to get condoms ourselves.” Like the Hoover Dam opening, more details flood back, drop by horrific drop. “And the pharmacy just happened to be right next to—”

“A wedding chapel,” he finishes for me, remembering it now too.

“A wedding chapel,” I repeat on an exhale. Un- fucking -believable.

Regrettably, that’s where my recollection of the night ends. I don’t know what convinced us to go into the chapel, or what spurred him to propose, or what made me say yes.

“Do you have any idea where the doughnut plays into things?” I ask, hoping that might trigger something.

Thomas frowns as he ponders it. “Well, obviously, I couldn’t get you a real ring on such short notice, and since you run so many bakeries, I guess I picked the one baked good with a hole in the middle.”

“Huh. Creative.”

I’m starting to slowly come down from my anxiety high, even though I don’t have any more answers for us. I’m taking solace in the fact that the marriage isn’t legal. We should be able to move on from this easily if we can clean up the other messes we made—and if no one else blabs about the trouble we got into.

“We should stop by the chapel at some point today or tomorrow and see if we can get everyone there to sign an NDA,” I suggest, though I’m really just declaring what I plan to do to handle this. “I’ll call my lawyers to see what they can do.”

“Good idea,” Thomas says. “If you need me to get my solicitor involved as well, just say the word.”

I’m not unused to dealing with men as moneyed and powerful as I am, but it’s always nice when they’re willing to lend a helping hand instead of expecting me to figure everything out. “Thanks. My team should be able to handle it, though.” That settled, I restart my search for my clutch and shoes. “Do you have any idea where my things are?”

“Maybe check the living room. You’re wearing shoes in the photos, so I assume they made it back here.”

I nearly gag at the idea of walking the Vegas streets barefoot, praying that even though I was hammered enough to marry a stranger, I still had enough wits about me not to do something so disgusting.

Leaving Thomas to recover on his own, I pad into the living room of the suite, taking in the destruction there. There’s a box of a dozen doughnuts on the coffee table, but no signs of anything I actually need.

I’m on my hands and knees looking under the couch when Thomas calls out, “Stella darling?”

The endearment has me frowning. It’s far too sweet and intimate for a one-night stand, even one I attempted to marry. But the more I turn it over in my head, the more it starts to grow on me. I mean, who doesn’t want a hot Englishman calling them darling ? I’m not immune.

“Yeah?” I shout back, squinting into the darkness to see if I can spot anything.

He comes around the corner a moment later and I sit back on my heels. He’s wearing that damn grimace-adjacent smile again. “I need you to take a look at one more photo.”

I huff in annoyance before I can stop myself. “If it’s another one of me making a damn fool of myself, I don’t want to see it.”

“Not that,” he reassures, but the cautiousness in his tone isn’t soothing me any.

“Then what ?”

He approaches me with the phone outstretched. I take it from him and scrutinize yet another blurry snapshot. This one is of us proudly holding up a piece of paper, Black Elvis beaming in the background. I don’t even need to zoom in on the document, because with one glance, it’s already too familiar to me.

No. No. There’s no fucking way.

Thomas clears his throat and delivers the exact news I feared. “I think that’s our marriage license.”