Page 17 of The Forever Experiment

I rub my temples in frustration. “I need the marriage certificate now so I can get it annulled before I go back to California tomorrow.”

The Bar Association conference officially ended this afternoon, and I was supposed to catch a red-eye to San Diego, but since Easton wasn’t able to get this resolved earlier, we both rebooked our flights and extended our hotel reservations one more night. I’d rather this marriage in Vegas stay in Vegas.

“Well,” the front desk associate tsks, “the process to annul is a bit more complicated.”

“If we were so intoxicated that we didn’t realize we were married until we woke up this morning and found this,” I wave our souvenir copy in front of her, “I’d say that meets the criteria for an annulment.”

She looks entirely unsurprised. “She has an appointment available tomorrow at ten o’clock. If you feel you have grounds for an annulment, you can obtain the proper paperwork then.”

I turn to Easton, wondering if he can read the raging annoyance on my face. The sorry smile he offers me says he does, and he might be biting back anI told you so,because I’m having just as difficult of a time getting our godforsaken marriage certificate as he did.

“My flight doesn’t leave until two tomorrow, so I can come get the paperwork,” he says.

“I don’t leave until four.” I turn back to the worker. “Put us down for ten, then.”

Late afternoon sun blasts my face as I push through the doors leading out of the dark lobby of the Clerk’s office and into downtown Vegas.

“Well, what do you want to do tonight?” Easton asks as we scurry down the steps and toward the waiting cab by the curb.

“Sleep,” I mutter. He opens the door for me wordlessly, and I slide into the seat before he rounds the car to the other door.

“Have dinner with me,” he says as he shuffles in next to me.

“I don’t trust your judgment when it comes to operating in public anymore,” I murmur.

“We’re already married, Maya baby. It’s not like we could make things worse.”

“I could get pregnant.” The words leave my mouth before I’ve fully processed them, realizing the actual implication of my suggestion. My jaw clamps shut, and I feel warmth running up my neck and flushing my cheeks.

I glance at Easton, who has his bottom lip between his teeth, grinning with hooded eyes as he looks me up and down like he’d devour me whole in the back of this cab if I let him.

Sensation rushes south, settling in places that shouldn’t be on such high alert in this proximity to him. I shove against hisshoulder with mine, hiding a smile of my own as I turn to stare out the window.

When we’re dropped off in front of our hotel, Easton opens my door, grasping my hand as he helps me out of my seat. He doesn’t let go as he leads us through the lobby and to the elevators.

“Have dinner with me tonight, please. No alcohol. No shenanigans. Just dinner.” He smiles, looping the curl at the base of one of my braids through his finger.

“Fine,” I relent as we ascend, coming to a stop at his floor.

He squeezes my hand one more time before leaning in, breath warm against my ear, whispering, “And I want to see my ring on your fucking finger.” His words send chills racing across my flesh, warmth gathering in my core. “Those pink heels too. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

He steps off the elevator, leaving me speechless as the doors shut and I begin to ascend once more.

“What the hell is this?” I ask as we walk through a set of double doors into a poorly lit restaurant with roaring noise. Children’s arcade games, I realize.

“I know you don’t like dark, loud, enclosed spaces,” Easton says, holding onto my hand. “But I think this could be fun. This place is known for having phenomenal appetizers, so we’re going to order one of each and choose our favorites, and then we’re going to have an air hockey competition.” He squeezes my palm. “But if it’s too much, we can go somewhere else.”

I squeeze back. “I can’t remember the last time I played arcade games.”

He glances down at me, offering a lopsided smile. “I figured.”

And Easton didn’t exaggerate. When we sat down at our table, he ordered us both a Shirley Temple and asked the waitress for one of everything on the appetizer menu. She had to move us from a bar top table to a booth to make enough space for the dozen plates that sit in front of us now. I’m stuffed to the brim, mostly with fried cheese.

Easton yawns, stretching his broad arms above his head, his tee riding up just enough to give me a glimpse of his stomach. I never got to see him shirtless all those years ago, and I feel it was a disservice to the experience. I’d like to see him fully, touch him—taste him—everywhere.

“You ready, Maya baby?” he asks, breaking me from my erotic, intrusive thoughts.

You have no place thinking about your husband that way.

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