Page 9 of Hot Mess Wedding

I nearly choke.

As does the cabbie.

I glare at him as I reach up to slide closed the window separating the front from the back. The guy shrugs in a gesture that implies he didn’t mean to listen in on our conversation. I glare more until he turns his gaze back to the road.

Only then do I look back down at the woman resting her head on my shoulder and sigh. What the hell am I going to do with her?

Before I can think an answer, she blinks her eyes open and looks up at me.

“Wanna hear a secret?”

“No,” I tell her honestly. Because I don’t think I can take anymore of her secrets.

She tells me anyway.

“Last week, I got Lola a Brazilian. In honor of the hotel. And because I want to be braver than I am.”

“Wait, who’s Lola?” I ask, knowing full well I probably shouldn’t.

“Oh, that’s the name of my nether regions.”

“Like your legs?”

“No. My kumquat.”

I nearly groan out loud, because I did not need to know any of that.

“You know my kitty, lady garden, muff, hoo-ha, beaver, cookie--”

I put my finger to her mouth to silence her. “Holy shit. Please stop talking.”

She nods against my finger so I move my hand. “It hurt though. All the waxing and the pulling.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. I do not need to be thinking about her pussy. I do not need to know her pussy is completely bare, because now all I can think about is taking her pants off. I could spread her out on the bed and lick her from slit to clit.

And I especially didn’t need to know that she’s on this trip, trying to be braver than she is. Because what the fuck does that mean?

She’s a virgin. With a waxed pussy. In Vegas. Trying to be brave.

All of that implies she’s here to get laid.

Fuck my fucking life.

Because how the fuck am I supposed to walk away now?

chapterthree

Cleary

I wake up suddenly and I’m cradled against a very masculine chest. I look up and find Bolt—no, that’s Ian from the plane. Beautiful, sexy Ian. I reach up and cup his cheek, the bristles of his beard scrape against my palm.

“Did the plane crash and this is my own personal heaven?” I ask.

He looks down at me with what I can only describe as a long-suffering expression. “No, sugar baby, we did not die. You are just having a big reaction to your medication and alcohol.”

His words make sense because my head is spinning, and I definitely don’t feel normal. It’s like thoughts are pinging through my brain and bouncing off of things before I can focus on them. Everything feels muted like I’m dreaming or watching the world through a fogged up window.

In addition to the spinning, fogged-up-window feeling, the world is bobbing up and down.

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