Page 13 of Hot Mess Wedding

“Oh thank God. I have a book signing to be at in like fifteen minutes. I don’t even want to know what I look like.”

“You look perfect to me,” he says, his gaze roaming up and down my body in a way that makes me feel hot under the collar. Or it would if I had on a collar!

“Aren’t you playing the perfect doting husband?”

“I told you, we’re—”

I hold up my hand to stop him. “No time. We’ll talk about it later. Right now I have to get ready.”

chapterfour

IAN

She grabs clothes out of her suitcase, glares at me like I’m the troublemaker here, and disappears into the bathroom.

She slams the door and then I hear her exclaim, “I am in law enforcement for heaven’s sake!”

I smile at the fact that she’s in there talking to herself.

“And I mixed drugs and alcohol and got high. Then got married in Vegas while under the influence!”

Even though she’s clearly talking to herself, I can’t help but answer. “You weren’t high. You had a slight reaction and were obviously exhausted.”

She pokes her head out to glare at me. “I must have been high! Why else would I have married a stranger?” Then she goes back in. “Albeit a ridiculously hot stranger.”

I grin, despite myself. “Darlin, we’re not married.”

“You must have been drunk too. Maybe the airline pumped something into the air system.”

She comes out dressed. Her black jeans look practically painted on, they’re so tight. And she’s wearing a shirt that says, “I have a dirty mind and I know how to use it.”

Fuck she’s cute. And hot.

And stubborn as fuck, apparently. This woman is going to be the death of me. I can already tell.

So why the hell can’t I stop grinning like an idiot?

“We’re obviously married,” she says.

She slides on a headband with… cat ears?

“The veil. The ring.”

“What ring?” The second the words are out of my mouth, I know exactly what ring she means.

She holds up her hand and wiggles her fingers at me, showing off the ring on her finger.

It’s huge and garish. An odd shade of pink. A lotus blossom sapphire, Micah said.

Yep. That’s the ring alright. So how the hell did it get on her finger?

“We’re in a honeymoon suite, for cripes sake. Clearly, we got drunk and married,” she says while stomping back over to her suitcase. She leans over, ass in the air, to dig through her suitcase for something.

I shake my head, simultaneously trying to rid my brain of her perfect ass on display and disagreeing with her. “That’s not what happened.” I want to ask her where she found the ring, but I know it will just lead to questions. Questions I can’t answer. Just like I can’t tell her why I’m so sure we aren’t married.

She may have been out of it last night, but I sure as fuck wasn’t. I remember every moment of our time together last night, from the moment I first met her gaze on the airplane to the moment she fell asleep, burrowing her ass against my crotch, muttering about all the very dirty things she writes about that she someday wants to do with a man.

So, yeah … about that …

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