Chapter 8
TIL TEQUILA DOES US PART
DAVINA
The first thing I registered was the headache—a ruthless, pounding drumbeat that seemed determined to crack my skull open. The second thing was the lacy bra dangling from the ceiling fan above me.
My lacy bra.
I groaned and pressed my palms against my eyes, which only made the pounding worse. What the hell had I done last night?
Fragments flashed through my mind: neon lights, the rows of slot machines, lots of tequila shots, a karaoke bar, and…
Oh God.
I bolted upright, clutching the silk sheet to my chest. My gaze dropped. I was completely naked. My eyes shifted, and the horrifying realization that I wasn't alone in the bed hit me.
“No. No, no, no, no, no.”
Sprawled across the other side of the bed was Dallas.
Also very freaking naked.
I scrambled backward so fast I nearly fell off the bed, taking half the sheet with me. Dallas stirred, groaning.
“Wake up!” I hissed, searching for something to throw at him. My hand closed around a pillow, and I launched it at his head.
It bounced off his shoulder, and he didn't even flinch.
“Dallas!” I tried again, louder this time, my voice cracking. “Wake up, you oversized man-child!”
That did it. His eyes flew open. For a moment, he looked confused, blinking at the ceiling like he was trying to remember which planet he was on.
Then his gaze slid to me.
We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. I watched the confusion in his expression morph into recognition, then shock, then amusement.
“Davidson?” His voice was rough with sleep, but there was a hint of a smirk forming at the corners of his mouth. “Well, good morning, sunshine. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Don't look at me!” I shrieked, even though the sheet covered everything important. “And definitely don't talk to me! Just...close your eyes!”
“You're in my room!” He sat up, apparently forgetting that he wasn't wearing clothes, and had the audacity to chuckle. I squeezed my eyes shut and pointed aggressively away from him.
“Put some clothes on!”
“It's my room!” He was definitely laughing now.
“It’s my room too,” I growled through clenched teeth. “And I don't care if it's Buckingham Palace, put on some freaking pants!”
I heard rustling, a thud, creative cursing, and then: “Okay, fine. I'm wearing a comforter. Happy? Though I must say, this isn't the first time a woman has ordered me to get dressed the morning after.”
I cracked one eye open cautiously. He'd wrapped the comforter around his waist, his hair sticking up in every direction. He was grinning like this was the most entertaining morning of his life.
“How did we get here?” I demanded, looking around wildly for my clothes. My dress was on the floor across the room. “What did you do?”
“What did I do?” His eyebrows shot up. “I believe this was a team effort, Davidson.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Though I don't remember anything after the rooftop bar. Must have been a hell of a night.”
“Me either.” I stopped. Had I? There was a fuzzy memory of someone saying Dallas Dodger couldn't possibly handle his liquor, and me, three cocktails in and running on spite, declaring I could drink him under the table. “Why are we both naked!”
“Well, when two people are very attracted to each other…” he started his words laced with sarcasm.
“Don't you dare finish that sentence!” I cut him off. “This is not funny!”
“It's a little funny,” he said, running a hand through his hair and looking around the room. “I mean, the last thing I remember is you trying to teach me the choreography from Dirty Dancing.”
“Uh,” I huffed out as I buried my face in my hands. This could not be happening. Not with him.
“Wait.” Dallas's voice changed, taking on an edge that made my stomach drop. “Davidson. Look at your hand.”
“What?”
“Your left hand.”
I held it up, and my heart stopped.
There, glinting in the Vegas morning sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, was a wedding band. Delicate, gold, with tiny diamonds embedded around it.
Absolutely beautiful and also absolutely terrifying.
“No,” I whispered.
Dallas held up his own left hand. An identical gold band sat on his ring finger. His eyes widened briefly before his face split into a grin.
“Well, well, well,” he said, wiggling his fingers to make the ring catch the light. “Looks like you've made an honest man out of me, Davidson.”
We looked at each other, me in horror, him with growing amusement.
“We didn't,” I said.
“The evidence suggests otherwise,” he replied, examining the ring with fascination. “I don't usually do marriage, but apparently, drunk me makes exceptions for rivals who can keep up with my tequila intake.”
I spotted my purse on the dresser and lunged for it, still clutching the sheet. My phone had a few missed calls, a text message from Brooke, and one video file that made my blood run cold.
I clicked play.
There we were, in a chapel, Dallas in black slacks and a dark grey polo, and me in my dress. An Elvis impersonator was pronouncing us husband and wife. Dallas was grinning like an idiot. I was laughing so hard I was crying.
And then we kissed.
It was not a polite, friendly kiss. It was the kind of kiss that belonged in an R-rated movie, all heat and passion. Even watching it now, hungover and horrified, I felt my face flame.
“Oh my God,” I breathed. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”
Dallas appeared behind me, looking over my shoulder at the phone. I heard a low whistle.
“Damn, we put on quite a show,” he said, sounding genuinely impressed. “I give that kiss a solid 9.5 out of 10. Would have been a perfect 10, but I think I almost dropped you at the end there.”
“We got married,” I said flatly. “We got drunk-married in Vegas.” I turned to face him, still clutching my phone. “I married you. This is literally my worst nightmare.”
“Hey!” His eyes danced with mischief. “I'm wounded. Most women would consider marrying me the grand prize.”
“You're the worst person I know!”
“And yet,” he gestured between us with a growing smirk, “here we are, Mr. and Mrs. Worst Person You Know. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?”
We glared at each other, both breathing hard, and I became acutely aware that we were still naked, and we were standing very close together.
I stepped back quickly, nearly tripping over a room service cart I hadn't noticed before. Champagne bottles lay empty on their sides. A half-eaten wedding cake sat on a plate, the plastic bride and groom topper lying face down in the frosting.
“We ordered a wedding cake,” I said numbly.
“And we went all out,” Dallas observed, picking up the fallen cake topper and examining it. “Look, the little groom has my hair.” He looked way too pleased about this discovery.
I spun on him. “This isn't funny,” I growled.
“It's at least a little funny,” he countered, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Come on, Davidson. We got so competitive that we ended up married. If that's not the perfect punchline to our rivalry, I don't know what is.”
“Shut up.” I started pacing, the sheet trailing behind me. “Okay. Okay, we can fix this. We'll get it annulled. It's Vegas, this happens all the time. We probably aren't even legally married.”
“Actually,” Dallas said slowly, pulling a sheet of paper off the nightstand, “according to this marriage certificate, signed by both of us and the Elvis impersonator, we definitely are.” He studied the paper.
I snatched it from his hand. There it was, in official black and white: Davina Marie Lawson and Dallas James Dodger, married at the Chapel of Eternal Love at 3:47 AM.
“This is not happening,” I said. “This is a bad dream. I'm going to wake up in my own room, alone, and this will all have been a stress-induced nightmare brought on by too much work and not enough sleep.”
“Should I pinch you?” Dallas offered, waggling his eyebrows. “That's what husbands are for, right?”
“You should get away from me before I kill you and claim temporary insanity.”
“Pretty sure being married to me isn't grounds for murder,” he said, looking far too entertained. “It would make one hell of a headline: Newlywed Murders Husband After Vegas Wedding; Claims She Was Driven to It by His Charm.”
“Don't,” I warned, pointing at him. “Don't make jokes. Don't be charming. Don't do whatever that thing is that you do….”
His jaw tightened. “You know what? Fine. You want to pretend this is all my fault? Go ahead. But last time I checked, it takes two people to get married.”
“Last time I checked, I was blackout drunk.”
“So was I.” Despite the raised voices, he looked like he was fighting back laughter.
“We need to get divorced,” I said, but it came out weaker than intended.
“Annulled,” he corrected. “And yeah. Obviously.”
We stood there in awkward silence, wrapped in our sheets, surveying the wreckage of our impulsive, drunken decision.
In twelve hours, I was supposed to be heading out on the town with Brooke for her Bachelorette party.
“Shit, Dallas,” I scowled. His eyes locked on mine. “We hijacked our best friend's wedding weekend.”
“Shit,” he mumbled, shoving a hand through his hair, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “We did, didn't we? Talk about stealing thunder.”
“They cannot know about this.”
“Agreed. Though I have to say,” he added with a grin, “their wedding is going to seem pretty tame after ours. Not many people can say they were married by The King himself.”
“Why are you not freaking out right now? You're the one who doesn't believe in marriage.”
He shrugged, that amused smile never leaving his face. “It could always be worse.”
“How could it possibly be worse?” I threw up my hands.
“Well,” he said, thoughtfully, “we could have gotten matching tattoos. Or adopted a tiger. Or livestreamed the whole thing.” He paused, eyes widening in mock horror. “We didn't livestream it, did we?”
My lips twitched at the mental image.
Dallas cleared his throat. “So, uh. Breakfast, Mrs. Dodger?”
I blinked at him. “What?”
“We should probably eat and try to soak up some of the alcohol. We can figure out our next move after.” He gestured vaguely at the room service cart. “I'm pretty sure we already ordered. Multiple times.”
The corner of my lip tugged into a half smile. “Is that a waffle on the floor?”
“I think it's a Belgian waffle,” he said seriously, though his eyes danced with laughter. “The chocolate chips are a dead giveaway. I clearly wanted only the best for my bride.”
And just like that, I laughed. It was either that or cry, and I'd already decided crying was not on today's agenda. He smiled too, looking entirely too pleased with himself for making me laugh.
“Okay,” I said. “Breakfast. Then we figure out how to undo the biggest mistake of our lives.”
“Second biggest,” Dallas corrected, picking up the waffle and examining it. “The biggest was clearly whatever happened after breakfast yesterday that resulted in...” He gestured vaguely at the ceiling fan, grinning wickedly. “...that.”
I followed his gaze to where my bra still hung, spinning slowly.
“We're never speaking of this again,” I said firmly.
“Whatever you say, wifey,” he replied with a wink.