Page 6 of It's Holy Matrimony, Baby

She points at the two men sitting at the end of the bar as the man in question gets up and heads for the restrooms off to the side. “The one that looks like a rock god, right? Those arms...it has to be him.”

“They’re just arms.” I sit back and start to join the beads of condensation on her glass together as a distraction. Swoon-worthy arms that held me close while he fucked me on our wedding night. On the bathroom counter, in the shower, against the wall, on the coffee table, in the bed. Those arms are attached to big strong hands that have their own porno reel in my head, and that’s only what I did manage to remember. Who knows what I forgot.

“Uh-huh,” she says. “And Will Smith is just an actor, you dirty deviant. Bet you didn’t even get his name before you felt him up.”

“Of course I did.”

“Well that makes everything better.” She chuckles. “What is his name anyway?”

“I don’t know.” My face gets hot, and there’s no way I’m making eye contact with her. “Ox, or Jax, or Nox maybe. We were drunk.”

“You married a guy without getting his name?” Her eyes bug out of her head like a cartoon character. “How? When?”

“Two years ago, almost. That trip we took to Vegas, after Claude. You remember?”

“Of course I remember.” For a second she looks a little sad, but then she focuses on me. “I don’t remember you getting married or being introduced to this hunky husband of yours. Though now that I think about it, I do recall you acting rather oddly on the flight home. And then for months afterward.” She trails off, deep in thought. “Is that why you took that entire month off from all alcohol? And why you’ve had less than no action since Vegas? It is, isn’t it?”

“It was a huge mistake. I didn’t even know him. It should never have happened.” I take a deep breath. “But it wasn’t because of him. I realized I needed a break from being a party girl,” I sputter. “And I did get his name. Or at least his last name. He kept calling me Mrs. Casey.”

“Beck Casey? That’s where your byline came from. You sure did get his last name.” She laughs. “I like it.”

“That’s not the point. It’s not even a thing. What do I do now? We have to get out of here before he sees me.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re still married, Liv. It’s weird.”

“You didn’t get it annulled?”

“I didn’t think it would matter. Figured he’d do it. And it’s not like I’m ever going to get married again. To a stranger or otherwise. You know how I feel about marriage.”

“Sure, sweetie. It’s a perfectly acceptable thing to do for anybody else, or when you’re drunk, apparently. But most people who make that kind of mistake deal with it as soon as they’re sober.”

“Well, I didn’t.” I groan.

“And he didn’t.” She glances over her shoulder, though he hasn’t returned yet, with that same look she usually gets when she thinks she’s onto some brilliant idea.

“Liv, whatever you’re scheming, don’t.”

“I’m not scheming anything.” She smiles a Cheshire cat smile while she toys with the straw in her drink. She takes it out of her glass and sets it on a napkin before picking up the martini glass. The contents are pink and smell like peaches and vodka. “But why do you suppose neither of you did anything to void the marriage? A man like him... single, and not trying to annul your wedding vows. Unless he hasn’t been able to forget you and your smoking hot body.” She reaches across the table to pinch the flesh over my ribs. “Those impure deeds you engaged in on your wedding night.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case. It was one night.” I squirm to get away from her hand. So what if it was one perfect night that left me wondering for months whether I should have stayed the next morning instead of running? At least long enough to experience him sober. It was like my body was wracked with withdrawals through those subsequent long, hot nights. But one night was where it ended, and where it should have stayed. Even if seeing him again makes my heart beat loudly. Of course that could also be the mid-level panic setting in. “And he probably isn’t single. You can’t assume that.”

“Of course I can. And he is. There’s not a woman in her right mind who would let that one sit for long without a lock on his finger. If he hasn’t asked for an annulment, then he’s single. Trust me.”

“Whatever. I don’t care. It was a mistake. Don’t get any ideas.”

“Oh no no no. I wouldn’t dream of it. Of course I wouldn’t get involved in this.”

It’s too late. The cogs are turning inside her head. “We should go.”

“Sure,” she says, picking up her purse as she climbs out of her chair. “I want to tip the cute bartender for doing such a good job.”

“Uh-huh.” I fold my arms against my chest. As if that’s what she wants to do.

“And by tip, I mean give him my room number. Might as well have fun while we’re living here.” She wiggles her eyebrows before sashaying away.

Leaning on the bar, one pointed, red-bottomed heel in the air, she says something to the cute young bartender and he hands her a pen and a napkin. Within a few moments, she’s written on it and waving it in my direction so that I can see the huge 108. Her room number, not some secret plan to make my life difficult. Phew.

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