Tied Down by a Vegas Marriage

Prologue

EMERSON

VEGAS

“Ididn’t take you for all bark and no bite, Mr. North,” I purr as he downs a shot of whiskey and slams the glass to the bar.

“I’m woefully out of my element, Miss Andrews.” The words are a gravelly rasp, his dark eyes skating over me in what might as well be a physical caress.

It’s been like this all weekend, the two of us sneaking off in between wedding festivities for something a little heavier than champagne and sitting out by the pool.

Garrett North is a rock god. As the lead singer of Descending North, he’s all grit and panty-melting perfection—a man both commanding on stage and in the bedroom.

Except when he lets me lead.

“Are you saying you’re not up for the challenge?” I mock pout, pretending to look around at other potential suitors for my little game. “I’m sure I can find someone…”

“Don’t even think about it,” he growls, his hand slipping under the hem of my short, black cocktail dress that’s just this side of indecent. It’s a statement piece.

A fuck you to the corporate world that says I need to be more demure in order to run a billion-dollar company.

I don’t.

I don’t need to settle down, and I sure as hell don’t need a husband to be more well-rounded. Those antiquated standards can fuck right the hell off.

“Then what are you suggesting, Rockstar?” I taunt, leaning forward so his fingertips brush against my silk panties, the material more expensive than our bar tab.

Sexy.

Sophisticated.

And well worth the price tag.

He grunts, gently brushing against my clit in a way that has my pulse fluttering in my neck as his eyes drop to my lips.

“Let’s up the ante.”

“Are you sure? You’re on a hell of a losing streak.”

We started the night with a ridiculous drinking game to liven things up on one of our last nights in Vegas.

The rules were simple and completely made-up.

If we argued about the exact lyrics in a song, which actor played in a movie, or something equally inconsequential, we’d call a challenge.

Using the Internet as our fact-checker, the loser was required to take a shot.

As it stands, Garrett has had six shots to my three—not counting what we had by the pool today and at dinner with the group.

“Then you should have no problem winning.”

“What do I get if I win?”

“If you win, I have to call a band meeting and kick my fuckup of a lead guitarist out of the band,” he spits out, the alcohol making his lips looser about the real reason they’d had to cancel the last several stops on the tour. I would have fired his ass from the start, but Garrett isn’t like me.

Despite his rock star persona, he’s incredibly introverted—something that had taken me more than a couple of hours to pull him out of.

“And if you win?” I ask, casually picking up my drink and taking a sip, my lips puckering around the straw and drawing his gaze. Nostrils flaring, I watch as his pupils dilate and I grin. He let slip our first drunken night here that my affinity for red lipstick turns him on.

It’s honestly adorable, and I’ve taken great pleasure in exploiting that little piece of information.

“If I win,” Garrett draws the words out slowly, his breath hot on my neck as he cages me against the bar with his body. “If I win, you marry me.”

“Absolutely not.” I balk, annoyed he’d even suggest such a thing. In return for his vulnerability about the band, I offered my own regarding marriage.

And love.

My father had it—true, soul deep, forever love.

And he’d lost it.

My mother died when I was young, and Gene Andrews never recovered—never married or even dated. His romantic life was confined to a mere chapter of my life, never to be reopened again. It left a mark on me, the kind where it starts as merely a statement.

I’ll never settle for anything less…

But then it turned into something unrecognizable—something dark and cynical—when my aunt cheated on my uncle, leaving him when my mother died for the other man. It’d wrecked us.

All of us.

My Uncle Cullen, my dad, my cousin Isla, and me.

While my uncle withdrew from everyone, building our empire and nearly dying at his desk to avoid ever being hurt again, my father doubled down on loving me and providing a happy home.

Isla broke the mold first, running off to Tennessee for a much deserved break, but then one month turned into forever. My best friend and the girl who I always thought of as a sister never came back.

Instead, she stayed in a small town surrounded by cotton fields and dirt roads to marry a hulking and wildly hot mechanic who treats her like a queen. Hell, even my uncle found love again once he packed up and followed Isla to Clementine Creek.

Their lives make sense away from the hustle and bustle of the city.

But that’s not for me.

If men can have transactional, mutually beneficial sexual encounters, why can’t I? The last thing I want or need is some guy at home wondering if I’m working late.

News flash, I work late every night.

“Are you afraid I’ll win?” Garrett prods, his cheek pressed against mine as he whispers in my ear. “Are you afraid you won’t be able to handle being tied down?”

“I’m not afraid of anything, Mr. North.”

“Then prove it.”

The challenge is delivered with a slow grin, the one that’s just as taunting as my declaration, and the little voice inside my head screams at me to walk away.

But I didn’t become Emerson Fucking Andrews from walking away.

“Fine, Rockstar, you’re on.”