Page 4 of The Accidental Wife

Cole

Oh, sweet Jesus.

The ache in my head rouses me from my very peaceful slumber—that and the smell of coconut and something rather exotic. What is that? Passion fruit? I shift to roll onto my side and frown when I feel a heaviness on my chest. I force my eyes open and wince from the sheer brightness of the sun beaming on my face. I glance down at the head of silky brown hair and get another waft of the coconut, passion fruit concoction. It’s her. I shift my head to the side and study the face of the girl currently sprawled across my chest. Not bad. I’ve woken up with worse. Her lips soft and pink, long dark lashes, perfectly shaped eyebrows.

What the hell happened last night? I can’t remember a damn thing. Who is this girl? I peel her arm away from my chest gently, detangle our legs, and she moans as I roll her off me, and she snuggles into the pillow with a sigh. I let my eyes wander over her naked body, half wrapped in the sheets while she’s sprawled out on her front, her long dark hair splayed out on the pillow. I take a closer look at her face and frown. Nope, don’t remember a fucking thing. Complete blackout. I look around the room. Our clothes littered haphazardly on the marble floor. Where the fuck are we? I pull my boxers on and walk over to the window. Why does the view look so familiar? Wait. Am I in fucking Vegas? I rub my hands over my face and look at the scenery ahead once again. Oh yeah, I'm in Vegas all right. I pick up my jeans off the floor and stuff my hands in the pockets, hoping I’ll find some clue of what the hell went down. I pull out a piece of paper from my back pocket along with my passport and unfold it. It’s damp— come to think of it, so are my jeans.

‘Marriage Certificate.’

I stare at the words blankly for a long moment. No fucking way. I did not go and get married to a random girl. I read the rest of the document and curse. Oh fuck.

‘Marriage of Tristan Cole Hoult and Shayla Hart.’

If the certificate wasn’t enough proof, I had a gold wedding band on my finger. I lean closer and look at the girl in the bed, and she’s also wearing a diamond ring on her finger. We got married. We flew to Vegas and got married.

“Fuck.” I find my phone on the table by the bed and walk out of the room. I have to call my lawyer. I’m hoping—no praying—that this marriage wasn’t legal.

“Mr Hoult? How can I help you?” Franc—my lawyer's sleepy voice came from the other end. Of course, time difference, it’s probably early hours there.

“Franc, apologies for waking you. Is a drunken marriage in Vegas legally binding?”

“Do you have a wedding certificate?” He responds. I snap a photo of the certificate and send it to him.

“I’ve just sent you a photo. Take a look.”

I hear him fumble with his phone on the other end. “Yes. It’s legal, Mr Hoult.” He confirms. My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. I stare at the certificate in my hand and sigh.

“Jesus Christ. I don’t remember a damn thing. We were so drunk. Surely there is a legal loophole to get me out of this?”

“I’ll look into it. We’ll get the marriage annulled on the grounds of you both being intoxicated.” He says, and I nod, pacing back and forth.

“Great. Keep me updated.” I respond and end the call. What the fuck were you thinking marrying a girl you don’t even know, you absolute idiot. This is so unlike me. I don’t drink this much. Ever. Hell, I don’t even go out. My life is all about work, and when I do have time to blow off some steam, I have a couple of glasses of scotch, then leave with whatever girl catches my attention that night. No, this is reckless and irresponsible, two things I most definitely am not. I’ve never gotten so intoxicated that I blackout and have no memory.

I turn around when I hear footsteps in the other room. I see Shayla wandering around the penthouse's dining area, with a sheet wrapped around her body. A look of horror on her face as she tries to work out her surroundings. The first thing I notice about her was her eyes—a darker shade than my own. Almost olive green, lined with long dark lashes, not the fake kind girls wear, no, hers were natural. Her hair shiny and long, cascading down her back in loose beach waves, albeit tousled from a night of wild sex.

I come up behind her and lean against the doorframe as she looks out the floor to ceiling window. “Good morning.” I greet, and she jumps startled, lets out an adorable little squeak, and turns to face me. Her eyes wide and confused, they rake over my topless torso and back up to my face again. “You’re finally awake.”

“Who are you?” She asks, backing up against the window. I sip my coffee and lick my lips. My head was still thumping unpleasantly and judging by the way she was rubbing her head. I’m going to assume she wasn’t feeling much better.

“I’m Cole.” I introduce myself, and she blinks up at me when I walk over to her. She averts her gaze from mine, wrapping her arms around herself as if to shield away from my prying eyes, her fingers gripping the sheet tightly.

“Um, where are we?” She questions, glancing around the penthouse.

“Vegas, I believe.”

Shayla’s eyes go wide as she stares at me, unblinking for a good minute. She shakes her head and frowns deeply.

“Vegas?” She intones incredulously, and I nod my head in response. “How the hell did we end up in Vegas?”

I shrug, “Beats me. I can’t recall a damn thing about last night. The only thing I remember was leaving the club with a girl. After that, it’s a blank. Do you remember anything?”

Shayla shakes her head, “No, I don’t remember a thing. I was ludicrously drunk. I don’t recall ever meeting you.” She explains, chewing her lip nervously. She drops her gaze from mine and brushes her slender fingers through her soft hair. “Um, why am I wearing a ring?”

I rub the back of my neck, and I hold up my hand and show her the wedding band on my finger. Her face falls. She looks down at the ring on her finger and then up at me again. “Tell me we didn’t. Did we get married? How the hell did this happen? How did we go from a club in central London to getting married in Las Vegas?!”

I groan when my head suddenly aches at the loud tone of her voice. “Easy with the volume, sweetheart. My head is still thumping.” I sigh, massaging my temples. “I don’t know how this happened, okay? I didn’t exactly plan to get in a drunken stupor and marry some stranger I met in a club.”

Shayla scowls at me, “Oh, and I did? No offence, but you’re not exactly my type.” It was my turn to glare at her. Is this girl for real? She doesn’t have any idea who I am. I’ve not met a girl whose type I’ve not been.

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