Page 10 of Against The Rules

I clap a hand over my mouth, and barely make it to the toilet in time.

His wife?

CHAPTER 5

TYLER

Waking up and rolling over and remembering I’d married the hottest chick I’ve ever seen in my life was one thing.

Listening to her get sick and freak out in the bathroom is another thing completely.

I frown, confused and hungover and slightly offended.

Is being married to me really that bad?

No, I decide. She’s just hungover, too. She has to be, considering she went toe-to-toe with me drinkwise and is about a tenth of my size.

Food.

“I’m ordering breakfast,” I yell at the closed door, then make a face. This is not how I imagined this morning after we spent the night sharing all our deepest, darkest secrets then tying the knot.

No answer, besides a sickly little groan.

“Need me to hold your hair back?” I ask, feeling stupid. I don’t know much about taking care of sick women, but I do know no one wants to throw up in their own hair.

No answer.

Food. She definitely needs food.

Was getting married a mistake?

Jesus. I shake my head and sigh. I can already hear my brother. “You thought getting married to a stranger in Vegas was a good idea? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was Vegas itself, but I thought Savannah and I had something special. Maybe I’m the fuck-up my family seems to think I am, after all. A muscle twitches in my temple.

“Food sounds good,” Savannah finally says weakly, her voice thin through the door.

I can do that for her.

I march over to the phone and pull out the glossy room service menu… and realize I have no idea what kind of food she likes.

Tension builds through my shoulders, and I pop my neck, trying to breathe.

No. I’m not going to let that shitty voice in my head talk me out of this. Savannah is the kind of girl my parents will love, the kind of girl they think I’m incapable of landing… or unwilling to land.

I’m going to make this work.

I’m going to prove to everybody that I’m more than some fuckboy football bro.

I don’t know what she likes, but it doesn’t matter.

“Room service,” a voice on the phone says.

“Hi, I’d like one of everything on your breakfast menu, a pot of coffee, some sparkling water, a bottle of champagne, and uh…” I flip the menu over, trying to figure out what else I could order that Savannah might like.

I want to impress her.

I want her to want me, too.

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