Page 4 of Marrying Mr. Majestic

It was the last thing I remembered until I woke up next to him the next morning, clad only in my underwear.

My underwear and the sparkling brightness of a brand-new wedding band on my finger.

TWO

SILAS

I’d heard about people getting drunk married in Vegas, but I’d honestly thought it was a joke or a plot in a cheesy rom-com. Not something that could happen to people like me—serious adults with an Ivy League education, international acclaim for having a sharp strategic mind, and a billion dollars in the bank.

So when I woke up hungover as shit and saw the marriage certificate with its shiny gold seal on the bedside table, I assumed it was a prank.

I fumbled for my phone and texted Landry first since he was the most likely culprit.

Me

WTF asshole?

Landry

As much as I love these pet names you have for me, Silas, I have no idea what you’re referring to. You ready for breakfast? I could eat a horse.

Me

I’m referring to the marriage certif?—

I was halfway through typing my response when I noticed the cowboy hat perched atop the lamp across the room.

“What the hell?” I mumbled, nearly knocking myself out with bad breath. Jesus fuck.

I stood up and stumbled to the bathroom, grabbing for my toothbrush. Flashes of memory from the night before tumbled through my pounding head.

Making a scene at Justin’s wedding. My friends rushing in to pull me away before I forced them to leave me to drown my sorrows at the hotel bar. The handsome cowboy on the barstool next to mine who’d had women sending him drinks like he was some kind of rock god. And dancing… hours of dancing with my hands moving up and down lean muscle and warm cotton.

My heart jolted as the image of him blinked more clearly into my mind. Tall, blond, and enough muscles to rope a steer… literally. Blue eyes like the endless sky over the Rocky Mountains on a clear summer day.

He’d been wearing a snap-front shirt and dark jeans. Worn cowboy boots. A charming smile with a goddamned dimple that made him look like the poster child for clean Midwestern living.

And the hat. That well-worn Stetson he’d fiddled nervously with and that I’d held while we danced.

The hat currently decorating my hotel room.

I groaned around the foamy toothbrush and squeezed my eyes closed. I’d taken the man’s hat like some kind of prepubescent teen.

Had we…? I squinted at my horrid reflection in the mirror as I tried to remember. Stubble-scratched kisses. Rumbled laughter. Shared confessions. Hands fucking everywhere.

A cheesy white altar with fake plastic flowers and limp swaths of tulle hanging over it.

“Oh, fucking fuck.”

I rinsed and wiped my mouth before looking over my shoulder to where the wedding certificate still sat on the bedside table. To my hungover brain, the thing seemed to be pulsing like a telltale heart.

My fingers shook as I typed a message to my friends.

Me

Code red. Get in here.

Hopefully, they remembered my room number because I certainly didn’t.

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