Page 4 of The "I Do" Do-Over

I try to follow the crumbs of evidence left in my brain.

My birthday. Vegas. Bright lights (I cringe even at the memory), shows (Celine!), alcohol.

Way too much alcohol.

Boone, my birthday buddy.

My stomach clenches at his name.

Boone.

Worry stirs in me, something uneasy niggling at the back of my mind. Something about Boone. What have I forgotten?

I roll over. There’s that sharp thing again, stabbing between my cheek and the hand cradling my aching head. I pry my eyelids open a fraction to see what is hurting me.

Something glitters up at me, far too cheerful for how I'm feeling. It’s a ring on my finger, I realize. A silver band with the biggest, most gaudy fake diamond I've ever seen perched on top, winking at me.

A sound hits my ears. A groan. A manly one — and a familiar one.

Boone, I think again, and there comes that flare of panic once more.

I roll back over, heart suddenly pounding in my throat. I’m terrified to see where the groan came from, and pray it only sounds like my best friend.

But there he is.

Sprawled naked on the bed next to me, tangled in the sheets, still sleeping.

Boone.

Fuck.

I ignore the molten heat that spreads in my low belly at the sight of his bared body as the rest of the night comes thundering to the front of my mind in painful clarity.

I’d been feeling good, thanks to our celebrations. I’d begun to question why I never let myself get more intimate with the man I’ve shared so much love with. And just like that, I'd let go of all my reasons to keep Boone as a friend instead of more.

I remember hungry kisses, his lips hot and needy on mine, his hands roaming my body in ways I’d dreamed of.

And then — I glance again at his sleeping form — his hard cock burrowed deep inside me, splitting me wide open in the best way.

It hadn't ended there.

There’s a less clear memory of us stumbling back into our clothes, laughing our way down the hallway and into the closest wedding chapel. I’d pointed at the ring that's now on my finger, saying how ridiculous it was. Boone had said his feelings for me are ridiculous, ridiculously real, and had plucked it from its pillow and put it on my hand, laying down cash for the ring and the service without batting an eye.

A whirlwind ceremony later, we were back in our room for round two, our bodies twining together, the sound of our coupling echoing in my memory.

Then nothing. Sleep, I guess, or we passed out.

And now here I am with a splitting headache, a fake diamond on my finger, and a belly full of fear that Boone and I made a mistake that we can never undo.

Stealing a look at him, I make sure that his breathing is even, then slip from the bed.

Maybe it was a fake ceremony. Maybe it wasn't the real deal. There have got to be some fake weddings here in Vegas, right?

As silently as I can, I search our room for some scrap of evidence, some shred of hope, that last night's indiscretions were anything but binding. But I'm not that lucky because there it is on the hotel dresser next to the receipt for the ceremony: our wedding certificate.

Two of them actually, his and hers copies.

Binding.

---