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seven

MIRA

Why is it so hot? And why can’t I move? Where am I? Everything hurts and my mouth tastes like ass.

What the hell did I do last night?

My head is throbbing, so I obviously had too many drinks when we all went out. That much, at least, is clear. I vaguely remember Maddox carrying Isla out of the club when she started to fall asleep, but everything after that is hazy. Kind of like my mind right now.

Opening my eyes is harder than it should be. Number one, it hurts. Number two, my eyes feel like they’re full of sand and grit. I blink a few times at the unfamiliar ceiling. The weight pressing against my stomach shifts, and every cell in my body freezes.

No wonder I’m hot. I’m not alone in this bed.

Don’t panic , I tell myself. Except, now that my brain is coming online, I’m pretty sure I’m naked, and that is definitely a semi-hard dick pressed against my hip.

Oh god. Oh god . I have no memory of meeting a guy last night, which means I could look over and find myself sleeping next to some man who looks like the Crypt Keeper or believes the earth is flat. I don’t get drunk often, because drunk Mira makes bad choices. Drunk Mira is not to be trusted.

A soft groan has my heart rate spiking, and even though I really don’t want to look at the naked man snuggling against my equally naked body in his sleep, there’s no way to avoid it.

“Don’t be eighty years old,” I whisper. Then I turn my head—and my heart stops beating.

Oh no. Oh, fucking shitballs. Curse you, drunk Mira. This is bad.

The naked body and the semi-hard dick pressing against me don’t belong to a decrepit old man.

They don’t belong to some idiot who believes the earth is flat—at least, he better not.

No, the golden skin, muscular thighs, washboard abs, and broad shoulders of the man beside me belong to someone I know very well.

Someone whose dick I should never feel pressed against my right thigh.

Someone whose dick will be ripped off by a very angry older brother if said older brother ever finds out about this.

Griffin’s golden hair is an adorable mess. He looks peaceful and young with his features relaxed in sleep. And his dick. His dick feels huge.

Oh god. Nope. I cannot think about Griffin Wright’s penis or how it feels pressed against me. And I definitely can’t acknowledge the way heat is pooling low in my belly.

I need to get out of here. To extricate myself from his arms, find my clothes, and go back to my room before anyone realizes I’m missing. Except, it’s not just Griffin’s arm that’s wrapped around my waist; he’s also got one leg hooked around mine.

So stupid, Mira.

I slap my forehead and wince when something hard connects with my skin. What now? Bringing my left hand in front of my face, the world seems to slow as it tilts on its axis. My brain stutters, threatening to go offline.

This must be a dream. A really weird, alcohol-induced dream. I’ll wake up any second now. And to help that along, I grab my cheek and pinch.

Motherfucker, that hurt. So, not a dream. Oh shit.

Oh. Shit.

This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. Because there’s no way the plain gold band on my ring finger means what I think it means. Right?

My breathing picks up, and it becomes harder and harder to suck in a lungful of air.

Panic is a maelstrom inside of me, swirling, tumultuous, and wild.

I’m naked, in bed, wearing an ugly wedding band , with Griffin Wright.

When his left hand twitches against my stomach, it takes every ounce of my resolve to lower my eyes to said hand.

Maybe if he’s not wearing a matching band, I just did some drunken jewelry shopping? Totally plausible. I’m sure that’s it.

Except, when I look down at Griffin’s long fingers splayed across my belly, that idea becomes much less likely. He’s wearing a matching gold band. It’s thicker than mine, but just as plain and ugly. So, either we both did some drunken jewelry shopping and both have absolutely garbage taste, or we…

Slamming my eyes shut, I try to deepen my breathing. I’m getting lightheaded, and the nausea churning in my gut is no longer simply alcohol related.

What happened last night?

I try to recall anything, but all I get are little flashes of moments. Griffin and I walking hand-in-hand down the Strip. Going to the fountain. Dolly Parton?

Griffin shifts beside me, a soft, nonsensical murmur puffing out from between his full lips.

Lips which, as he curls farther into me, end up pressed against my neck.

Heat flares low in my belly, and when his hand slips down my stomach, the heat turns into a flame.

As his fingers glide against my lower belly, which hollows out, I can’t hold back a gasp.

“Mmm.” Griffin’s dick hardens against my hip and his face nuzzles my neck.

It’s like his body is waking up before his head.

Well, his big head. The little one is wide awake and more than ready to start the day.

His lips brush against my neck and his fingers flex, getting dangerously close to my pussy.

If they slide a little farther down, he’ll feel how wet I am right now.

Bad Mira. Now is not the time to be turned on. This is not a sexy situation. This is a disaster of epic proportions.

Kinda like Griffin’s dick. The epic proportions, I mean. Because holy crap, that thing just keeps growing.

And then his long fingers do start to slip lower, and I let out a strangled squeak.

Griffin’s body goes still. His muscles tense against me and his wandering hand halts its journey. When he pulls his face away from my neck, I feel an idiotic stab of loss.

“Mira?” His voice is gravelly and rough with sleep. Confusion laces his tone. I suck in a deep breath and turn to meet bleary hazel eyes struggling to focus on my face. “What are you doing in my bed?”

I squirm against him, acutely aware of my exposed breasts and the fact that the sheet covering our lower halves sits so low on my hips you can almost see my mound.

The movement draws Griffin’s attention from my face down to my body, and the multi-hued hazel of his eyes turns molten.

I feel his perusal as if it was a physical caress.

His eyes make hungry sweeps of my body, lingering on my peaked nipples and the rapid rise and fall of my chest, which makes my breasts bounce slightly.

When they dip lower to find his hand flexed, half-covered by the sheet, inches away from my pussy, he lets out a strangled sound.

As if he’s finally registered the position we’re in.

“Mira.” His gaze jumps to mine. “Shit. I don’t… I don’t remember what happened last night. Did I… Did we…?”

“Have sex?” I try to smile, but it must come off as more of a grimace because Griffin takes his hand off my stomach like he’s worried he’s hurt me.

He drags the sheet up my body to cover my breasts.

Worry creases his brow, and I want to reach out and smooth my fingers over the lines.

“Um, I’m not sure. I don’t… I don’t think so? ”

He winces at that, studying my face, for what? “But we’re naked. Are you sure? Oh god, Mira, I’m so fucking sorry, I?—”

“Hey, I was involved in this situation too,” I say quickly, needing to interrupt his panic.

Whatever happened last night, it’s not all on him.

One thing I distinctly remember is talking him into drinking more alcohol when he was ready to call it quits.

So really, if anyone’s to blame for our current predicament, it’s probably me.

“But I’m pretty sure we did more than get naked. ”

Griffin’s frown deepens. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” I swallow and try to keep the maelstrom of nerves in my gut from making me puke all over my… husband.

Oh. God.

I take one deep breath, then another. My left hand shakes as I lift it in the air for him to see. “I think we…” I clear my throat when the words come out as a croak. “I think we got married.”

GRIFFIN

I think we got married.

I think we got married.

I think we got married.

The words echo through my foggy, pounding skull again and again, but I can’t seem to make sense of them. Nor can I make sense of the plain gold band clinging to Mira’s ring finger. In what feels like an out-of-body experience, I lift my own left hand to find a wider matching gold band.

My ears ring.

“Griffin?” Mira’s voice slices through the haze. She sounds panicked. Like she’s ten seconds away from freaking the fuck out. I mean, join the club, but I hate the idea of Mira spiraling. It makes my chest ache.

“It’s okay,” I say, propping myself up on one elbow so I can look down at her. Mira stares up at me with wide, glassy green eyes. Like I have all the answers. She stares at me like I can fix this.

I have no fucking clue how to fix this. Not only have I potentially messed up my friendship with this woman who has become such an integral part of my life in three short months, but I also may have ruined my relationship with the best friend I’ve ever had.

Because if Maddox finds out I married his little sister during a drunken bender in Vegas, he will kick my ass, then never speak to me again.

Not to mention the fact that, even if we didn’t have sex, I spent the night spooning her naked body with mine.

A fact my dick seems pretty excited about, but he’s a goddamn idiot.

Mira’s not the only one panicking, though I do my best to keep the terror zinging through my body from showing on my face. Pressure isn’t anything new. Every day on the ice, I’m faced with impossible shots and potentially dangerous hits.

I can figure this out. I can help her calm down.

“How is any of this okay?” she asks, clutching the sheet to her chest as she sits up.

I sit up too and try not to focus on the naked expanse of her back and the swell of her perfect ass.

“We’re naked and wearing wedding rings, Griffin.

Wedding rings! ” Mira’s voice pitches higher.

“Can you remember getting married last night? Because I can’t. ”

Rubbing my forehead, I try to recall the night before.

I remember dancing with Mira, drinking a double shot of something that burned like hell going down, and then watching some guy drunkenly propose to his girl at the fountain.

Then, somehow, we got to talking about Elvis? Everything else is a blur.

“I don’t remember much from last night, if I’m honest,” I tell her with a wince. Even that small movement makes my head pound and my stomach churn.

“Maddox is going to kill me.” Her green eyes are full of panic.

“And I don’t want to be the reason your friendship ends.

How could I have been so reckless?” Mira’s chest starts to heave and her breath comes out in shallow little puffs.

The color drains from her pretty face as she grips her messy dark hair with her left hand and holds the sheet to her body with her right. “What do we do?”

Something cracks inside me at the sight of confident, fiery Mira looking so lost and scared. I hate it. I want to wipe the fear from her eyes.

“Hey.” I angle my body toward hers and gently cup her cheeks. “Look at me, Mir. Look at me.” She does as I say, though her chest still rises and falls too quickly. Her breathing is still too shallow. “Everything is going to be all right. We’ll figure this out.”

“Right.” She nods her head, but I don’t drop my hands.

The rhythmic slide of my thumbs across her cheekbones seems to be calming.

She sucks in a breath. “We can figure this out. This doesn’t have to be the end of the world.

People get drunkenly married in Vegas all the time, right?

We just need to talk to a lawyer and get an annulment. ”

“Um, I’m not sure it’ll be quite that simple,” I say, glancing down at our naked bodies. “Doesn’t, uh, consummating the marriage sorta make it legally binding? We can’t be sure we didn’t have sex.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. A deep red flush blooms along Mira’s chest, up her neck, and across her cheeks.

“Oh, my god. So we get a divorce, Wright. We pretend like this never happened, we tell no one , and we get a divorce. No one ever has to know that we were married for all of a week. We can pretend this epic fuckup never happened.”

Something about Mira’s words makes my chest squeeze painfully, and I drop one hand from her face to rub at my chest. Sure, neither of us made the decision to get married with a sound mind, but the way she says that no one has to know hurts.

That this was an epic fuckup . I get that I’m not many people’s idea of husband material.

And I know that a large part of that is a problem of my own making.

But I thought Mira saw through my bullshit.

At least enough that she wouldn’t be completely embarrassed to call me hers.

No matter how temporarily. A memory of my college girlfriend, Carissa, assaults me.

“This can’t be a surprise, Griffin. We’ve been having fun, but did you really think we’d get married? You’re hot and sweet, but come on. You think you’re going to play hockey for a living. I can’t bring a guy like you home to my parents. They’re doctors. ”

“Right,” I say, my voice tight as I scan her face. “No one has to know.”

Her expression shifts at my tone. “Griffin… Come on. It’s not like you want to be married to me, either. This was a drunken mistake. We never would have done anything this stupid if we were sober.”

Yeah, we were drunk, but hearing Mira call this a mistake rubs me wrong. Because what she’s really saying is that I’m a mistake.

I’m always a mistake. Here for a good time and a great fuck, and nothing else. I’m not the guy you bring home to your parents. Not the guy you tell your brother about. Not the guy you risk anything for. I’m just a mistake. And that has my ire rising.

Which is why I open my mouth and say something truly unhinged.

“It wasn’t a mistake.”

Mira goes still, blinking slowly at me. “What?”

This is dumb. I know it’s dumb. But the words have been said, I’m feeling hurt, and I dig in my heels without consciously deciding to.

“I’m not divorcing you, Mira. I want to stay married.”

“Come again?” she squeaks.

I swallow the lump in my throat. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“I won’t divorce you, wife.”