Page 11 of Against The Rules

The last thing I need is for the story of how I got quickie married in Vegas and then had to get it annulled to be the latest ‘hilarious’ story told about me around the holiday dinner table.

Fuck that.

“Anything else?” the voice on the phone prompts.

“Chocolate,” I say, floundering. Women like chocolate. I think. “And if you have any roses or flowers, send those up too.”

“Sir. I see you upgraded to the honeymoon suite last night. Would you simply like our honeymoon breakfast package instead? It includes all the things you asked for.”

“Oh.” I flip through the menu, and sure enough, in girly swirling script, a honeymoon breakfast package describes a breakfast for two. “Yes. That. And extra bacon. And fruit.”

“Absolutely, Mr. Matthews,” the voice on the end of the line says, and I swear I detect a hint of amusement. “Should be there in about half an hour.”

I hang up, my heart beating too hard in my chest.

Honeymoon package.

For some reason, that makes the reality more… well, real. I rub my forehead. I must be more hungover than I thought.

I married Savannah last night. An Elvis impersonator married us, and a wrinkled woman dressed in sequins who sounded like the only thing she’d breathed in the last five decades was cigarette smoke was our only witness.

At the time, it seemed like fun, and maybe even romantic.

In the harsh light of day, the neon Vegas dreamscape traded for hot desert sun, it seems stupid as fuck.

“Shit,” I mutter, pressing my fingers to my temples.

The door to the bathroom swings open and Savannah appears. Her blonde hair is tousled and unruly, and her face has been scrubbed, still pink and totally makeup free.

She’s… stunning.

“I used one of the toothbrush packets the hotel had in there,” she says quietly, staring at me with round blue eyes. “I hope that’s okay.”

“What’s mine is yours,” I say, and it surprises me how sincere I sound.

“Listen,” she pauses, hanging onto the door jamb so hard her knuckles whiten. “I don’t exactly remember all the details of last night. Were you… were you joking? About us, I mean, about being—”

“We got married. Witness and all.” It kind of hurts that she doesn’t remember it.

Maybe I am the fuckboy fuck-up everyone thinks I am.

She blanches, her throat bobbing and her beautiful eyes somehow managing to get even wider.

“Congratulations, you’re married to the Wilmington Beavers starting tight-end. Cleat-chasers, eat your hearts out.” As soon as it comes out of my mouth, I fucking regret it.

A look of horror crosses her face, and she slides down the door jamb onto the floor, in a heap of toned limbs.

“What?” The question is hardly more than a whisper, but I hear it loud and clear. “You play football for the Beavers?”

“Yep. We won’t even have to do a long-distance marriage.” I try to sound nonchalant, but I feel like the biggest asshole in the world. I know the rules. Her rules, that is—the cheerleader rules.

“Are you kidding me? Of all the bad luck.” She looks up at me, her sapphire eyes filling with tears. “We have to undo this. Annul it. Whatever. I can’t be married to you.”

I knew she was going to say it, because of fucking course she was going to say it.

It hits me harder than any tackle I’ve taken on the field.

I swallow hard, my mouth dry, and run a hand through my hair. I have to play my cards right. I don’t want this one to slip away. I’m good at cards. I can do this.

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