Chapter 25 #2
“We figured Las Vegas was the perfect place to tie the knot,” I explain, trying to muster something akin to excitement in my voice.
Initially, we were just going to do it in secret and use the staff at The Little White Chapel to sign the paperwork.
No muss, no fuss. Quick and dirty, like we agreed.
But the excitement on Rumi’s face and the suspicion on Emerson’s has me adding, “And, we’ll need witnesses. ”
“We’d be honored!” Rumi squeals, wrapping her arms around me.
Emerson taps her palm against my thigh, giving it a squeeze to show her agreement with Rumi.
“Did you bring a white dress?” Rumi asks as she unwraps her arms from around me.
When I shake my head, she says, “That’s fine, maybe we can find a thrift store or something.
We can get Anderson a tux there, too! Something fun and nontraditional because that’s definitely your guys’ vibe.
” Rumi keeps going with questions and her ideas, and while it feels nice not to be the one to plan everything for once, I wish it were under different circumstances.
“Okay, with all of that settled,” Emerson interjects, “now you can sleep.”
I huff out a breath. “I can’t sleep now, not with this one.” I jut my thumb in Rumi’s direction.
“Want me to sing to you?” Emerson deadpans.
I roll my eyes, reaching down between my legs and pulling out my tote bag. I grab my headphones and my eye mask, which I have tucked into the side pocket for easy access. Putting them both on, I throw the hood of my sweatshirt over my head.
I tap my two best friends on their arms. “Goodnight.”
It isn’t until I’m just about to fall asleep that I remember we took off, and everything is fine.
And I didn’t even check the zipper again.
I let the hotel door close behind me, and I think I’m even more tired than I was when I woke up to my alarm early this morning.
The sleep I got on the plane was mediocre at best. Emerson’s shoulder was a good pillow, but I just couldn’t get comfortable. With my period due in the next couple of days, my cramps were annoying enough to keep me awake, and my boobs are starting to feel sore.
Between getting all our luggage, piling into the shuttle to the hotel, and checking in, I’m beyond the point of exhaustion. I just want to get into my bed and nap until I have to get ready to meet everyone for dinner.
“Where do you want this?” Anderson asks me over his shoulder. He has my suitcase in one hand and his in the other, a backpack hung over his shoulders, his dark hair covered by a backwards baseball cap. “I can put it—” he freezes mid-step.
“What’s wrong?” I close the distance between us, but I understand the second I’m standing next to him, seeing what he’s seeing.
Anderson clears his throat. “It looks like there’s only one bed.”
I groan, not caring how loud it is. Anderson turns to look at me. “There’s supposed to be two doubles, not one king.” I bring my palm up to my forehead, rubbing at the skin as I close my eyes.
“Are you okay?” Anderson asks.
“Fine. Just tired.” A headache blooms at my temples, radiating around my eyes. My forehead is sweaty from the dry, Nevada heat, and my feet are killing me. All I want to do is let my body fall to the floor in defeat and get some rest.
But I don’t even want to think about how gross these floors are.
“Why don’t you lie down? I can go see if Emerson or Rumi and Jack have two beds, and we can switch.”
“No, we can’t do that.” My hand falls back to my side as I open my eyes, letting the moment of feeling sorry for myself come and go.
“How would we explain that we need two beds when we’ve been dating for almost ten months and are living together?
” I cross my arms, my shoulder leaning on the wall next to me, just to take some pressure off my tired legs. “Oh, and we’re about to get married.”
Anderson rolls our suitcases to the side, shrugs off his backpack, and sets it down on the dresser just under the TV.
“Then I’ll go back downstairs and see if there’s another room available. Why don’t you just lie down?”
“Why would I lie down if we’re going to switch rooms?
” I look around the space. Afternoon sunlight pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a pale gold light that washes out the neon of the Strip outside.
The air hums softly from the AC, curtains half-drawn against the desert glare.
The room is neat and tidy, the bed perfectly made, the remote angled just right on one of the nightstands.
“Besides, the concierge said the hotel is fully booked this weekend because of the Cross My Heart tour.”
“Then, I’ll take the couch, and you can take the bed—starting now.”
“We have to be at dinner in—”
“Three hours,” Anderson interrupts, like it’s obvious.
“But I need to unpack and get ready and—”
“Ava.” Anderson comes to stand in front of me, and the words die in my mouth, leaving my lips parted. “Take a nap.”
“But—”
“No ‘buts’.” He smiles, the lazy grin stretching over his features. “Isn’t that what you say to Georgie?”
“I don’t like my words being thrown back at me,” I fire back, stepping around him, giving myself a wide berth.
I can’t be trusted to look at that smile longer than I have to—not with the way it short-circuits my brain on a day where I’m two cold brews in.
I don’t even want to know what it could do when I’m running on fumes.
“And I don’t like clowns.”
I turn around to face him. “What?”
“Now that we’ve each established our fun fact for the day, go to sleep. You can think about what you want to share tomorrow while you’re getting into bed.”
I put my hands on my hips, raising a brow.
“I don’t know how I feel about you telling me what to do.
I didn’t sign up for that kind of husband.
” Anderson’s eyes slightly widen, and I realize my mistake.
“Fake husband.” I turn toward the bed, grab the comforter, and bring it back before walking over to my suitcase.
Even though I'm tired, I would never get into clean sheets with dirty clothes. I go to lift my suitcase to put it on the dresser, but Anderson grabs it from me, lifting it up for me.
“I don’t know if that’s true,” he says, his voice low. I try to ignore it—and him—unzipping my suitcase and pulling out my packing cube with my pajamas and lounge wear, neatly packed up and organized so it’s easy to find.
I feel him behind me, his chest just inches away from my back. His lips draw close to my ear, and he makes it almost impossible not to react. “I can think of a few times my fake wife happily did what I told her to,” he whispers.
My breath hitches, desire pooling low in my belly. I don’t want to think about why, or how velvety smooth the word “my wife” fell from his lips, almost making me forget he added “fake” to it.
I clear my throat. “I doubt she knows what you’re talking about.” It’s a lazy, stupid comeback, and my voice is too breathy to sound normal, but I’m just happy I was able to form a coherent sentence without my voice cracking.
I hate that he’s pulling this reaction from me.
But I hate the thought of pulling away from him even more.
“Maybe I should jog her memory.” His hand gently rests on my hip—tentative, a stark difference compared to the confidence in his voice.
“If I remember correctly,” he continues, not waiting for me to respond.
I don’t know if I could even if I wanted to.
My body reacts to his touch before I can think better of it.
My head leans back, perfectly finding the space just below his neck.
My eyes close, and his grip on my hip tightens.
“My wife listens very well when I tell her exactly how I want her to ride my—”
A series of knocks sounds at our door, followed by the muffled voices of our friends.
My eyes pop open, and my head finally catches up to what the fuck is happening.
I jump away from Anderson, so quickly as if his touch burnt me—so hot it could’ve branded me.
And honestly, I think it did.