Page 11 of Hot Mess Wedding

Something slides up my belly and grabs onto one of my boobs, then there are lips at the back of my neck and something long and thick and hard poking at my bottom.

“Burrito sex dream.” The sound of my voice pulls me the rest of the way out of whatever weird hallucination I was having. Slowly, my surroundings fall into place.

Super soft and comfy pillow.

Mouth is dry from possible dehydration.

Eyes feel crusty from sleep.

Wall of muscled heat behind me.

Wait, what?

I move as quickly as possible, yanking off the covers and scrabbling out of bed, only to find myself wearing nothing but my bra and panties. My eyes track to the lump beneath the bedding. I pull it back revealing the nearly naked, tattooed giant in my bed.

He rolls over, flinging an arm over his eyes.

Shit!

Shitshitshitshitshit!

The nearly naked, tattooed giant is Bolt. No. Wait. Not Bolt.

Bolt is the hero from my latest novel.

This is … I wrack my brain for his name … Ian. Ian from the plane.

Ian with the deep growly voice, huge booted feet, and big warm hands. Who I chatted with the whole flight while sipping margaritas. After taking a Xanax!

Shit!

What was I thinking???

And why don’t I remember anything after the margarita? How did I get here? In bed with Ian?

A blurry, tilt-a-whirl memory of Ian carrying me into the hotel shimmers into focus. He carried me into the room like I was his bride. Which I vaguely remember thinking was weird because …

Panic cuts off that train of thought as I look around the room.

The blackout curtains are drawn, so the only lighting is a sliver of daylight peeking through the gap in the curtains. I glance around the room to take in as much as I can. There’s a room service tray that was rolled in at some point. It’s got a bottle of champagne in one of those fancy silver ice buckets, but the bucket has water puddled around it, like it’s been sitting there for a long time. There’s also a vase of long-stem roses. They’re not red, but a gorgeous shade somewhere between pink and orange. I step closer to the flowers and notice a sign on one of those metal name card holders that boldly reads, “Congratulations, newlyweds.”

I squeak and clap my hand over my mouth. That’s when I notice the ring.

The ring on my finger.

On my ring finger.

I lower my hand and stare, open-mouthed at the big, honking ring on the ring finger of my left hand.

The center stone isn’t a diamond. It’s nearly the size of a grape and a shade of orangey-pink that matches the roses almost exactly. It’s flanked by two stones that might be diamonds, but if they are, they’re the biggest diamonds I’ve ever seen in person.

The ring is gaudy, but undeniably gorgeous. More worrisome, it is clearly a wedding ring.

“Oh my God,” I panic-whisper. “Okay, breathe, Cleary, this is okay. This isn’t the complete worst-case scenario. It’s not like you woke up in the bathtub missing a kidney.”

There’s a deep rumbling chuckle from the bedding. Ian props himself up on his elbows.

“Lil’ darlin’ you are a fucking delight,” he says.

---