Page 10 of Hot Mess Wedding

It takes a minute to figure out why the world is bobbing up and down. It’s because he’s carrying me, bridal style. Somehow, we made it off the plane and—I look around—to the hotel? We must be in the hotel. But I have no memory of getting here.

He’s stops in front of a door and swipes the key, then he shoves it open.

A few things hit me at once. First, this isn’t a normal hotel room. I mean I’ve only ever stayed in a handful of them, but I know enough to know that having this kind of view and this many windows means the room is enormous. A suite, maybe. My eyes catch something on the back of the hotel room door. Honeymoon suite.

“Oh my God! The honeymoon suite! Did we get married?” Why don’t I feel panicked? I should clearly be freaking out. Instead, I find this hilarious. Giggles bounce through me.

Ian sets me on the enormous bed. “No. And you obviously need to sleep things off if you can’t remember everything from the plane until now.”

Everything. Sounds ominous. I try to find a memory and I imagine myself flipping through an old rotary file. That makes me laugh too. Which makes the world spin even more. I lay back on the bed and stare up at the ceiling.

“Today has been weird,” I muse.

“You have no idea,” Ian mutters.

I roll over and prop my head on my elbow to watch the big man move around the hotel room. Since he deposited me on the bed, he’s been checking everything out.

He’s looking all over the room like he’s searching for bugs or something. Maybe he really is an assassin like Bolt.

Since he’s keeping himself busy looking under the sofa cushions, I sit up in bed and pull off my shirt, because the tag has been bugging me all day. And then, because it feels weird to be wearing my jeans and no shirt, I unzip my jeans and wiggle them off my ass. Except I can’t get them all the way off my legs. So I give up and flop back onto the bed.

Staring up at the ceiling, I say, “Just so you know, I’m a chronic insomniac, so if I get up and move around or write, then just ignore me,” I say.

“Like you can’t fall asleep well?” he asks.

“No. More like I can usually fall asleep, but I don’t stay asleep. It’s how I’ve been able to write my books despite having a full-time job.”

He’s still wandering around the suite, obviously looking for something. I mean who else opens all the drawers and doors when they first get to a hotel?

“Oh my God, are you looking for drugs?” I ask him.

He stops mid-shuffle of some decorative trinkets on one of the end tables flanking the sofa. “What?”

“Like are you undercover?” I ask with an admittedly exaggerated whisper. I prop myself up on my elbows to look at him. He’s just staring at me in apparent horror.

I wave my hand in his direction. “You’re all scoping things out. I’m just wondering what you’re doing.” The room starts to roll in waves. Not so much spin, just a subtle motion like I’m on a boat. “Oh,” I grab my forehead and squeeze my eyes shut.

I hear a groan of exasperation which might be from me or from him. I can’t tell.

I hear his footsteps as he moves towards me. Then the bed shifts under his weight. He pulls off my shoes and tosses them aside. And then sighs loudly before tugging my jeans the rest of the way off.

Oh, right.

That’s why I couldn’t get them off. Shoes!

Then he pulls back the covers. Next thing I know I’m all cradled in the bed against the most comfortable pillow I’ve ever touched.

I sigh in relief.

“No, sugar baby, I’m not undercover or looking for drugs. I’m an inkslinger from Texas; I own a shop there with my younger brother. I’ll get you some water and put it on this table; you get some sleep. As much as your beautiful body will allow you.”

* * *

I wake up cocooned in heat.

Maybe I’m dreaming that I’m a burrito because that’s what this feels like. Enveloped in something warm that keeps me from moving around too much. A grumbly growl comes from behind me and I freeze. Shit, it’s a man-eating burrito instead of the other way around.

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

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