Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
S unlight stabbed through Ava's eyelids like scalpels, unforgiving and precise. Her head throbbed with the special kind of pain reserved for tequila-induced regrets, and her mouth felt like she'd performed surgery on herself with cotton balls. Groaning, she tried to roll away from the offensive brightness, but a heavy weight pinned her in place.
Housekeeping must have added a weighted blanket, she thought groggily, trying to shake it off. The weight tightened around her waist.
“Five more minutes,” a distinctly male voice mumbled against her hair. “Turn off the sun.”
Ava froze, suddenly very aware of several alarming facts in rapid succession:
That was not a weighted blanket.
That was an arm. A muscular, male arm.
Said arm belonged to a person. In her bed.
She could feel the sheet brushing against far too much of her bare skin.
With the cautious movements of someone defusing a bomb, Ava slowly turned over. Her eyes met the peaceful, sleeping face of Reed Campbell.
Reed Campbell.
In her bed. His chiseled chest bare, hair tousled, looking unfairly attractive for someone who had consumed as much alcohol as she vaguely remembered they both had last night.
Her horrified gasp was enough to make his eyelids flutter, but he didn't wake fully. Instead, he smiled in his sleep and pulled her closer, his hand sliding down her naked back.
Her naked back.
The realization hit her like a crash cart to the chest. She was naked. In bed. With Reed Campbell. Her brother's best friend. Her coworker. The man who'd starred in more forbidden fantasies than she cared to admit.
“WHAT THE HELL?” The shriek escaped before she could stop it, her body launching out of bed with emergency-room reflexes.
Reed bolted upright, instantly alert in the way only first responders can manage, eyes scanning for danger. “What? What's wrong?”
Ava stood beside the bed, frantically trying to cover herself with her hands while simultaneously processing the view before her. The rumpled sheets had fallen away, giving her a full, unobstructed view of Reed Campbell in all his glory. And glory was the operative word.
“What did we do?” she demanded, her voice reaching a pitch she normally associated with pediatric patients. “What the actual hell did we do, Reed?”
He blinked at her, confusion giving way to understanding, followed by an infuriating smirk. “Well, based on the evidence…” He gestured vaguely to their mutual nakedness and the thoroughly destroyed hotel room. Clothes made a trail from the door to the bed. An empty champagne bottle lay on its side next to—was that her bra hanging from the TV?
“Cover yourself!” She snatched the comforter from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around herself like armor, leaving Reed with only a sheet.
“Little late for modesty, Doc.” He stretched languorously, making no attempt to cover himself. “I saw it all, kissed it all, did a whole lot more than that to all of it last night. And so did you.” His voice was morning-rough and tinged with satisfaction.
Ava grabbed a pillow and hurled it at him with surprising accuracy. “Cover. Up.”
Reed laughed, but pulled the sheet over his lap with exaggerated slowness. “I didn't take you for a prude, Spencer. Not after last night. Especially not after that thing you did with the?—”
“Stop talking! Stop talking right now!” She pressed her hands to her temples, trying to organize her fragmented memories from the night before. Shots at the Blackjack table. The Cirque show. More drinks at the rooftop bar. A conversation about Rachel and Kyle’s wedding. Something about rules and breaking them then…
Her eyes caught sight of something glittering on her left hand. Something gold. Something ring-shaped.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, holding her hand out in front of her like it had suddenly grown an extra finger. “Tell me we didn’t.”
Reed's eyes followed her gaze, and she watched his smug expression falter. He lifted his own left hand where a matching gold band gleamed.
“Holy shit,” he breathed. “We got married.”
The room spun around Ava, and not in the pleasant champagne-buzz way of last night. This was full-on, hyperventilating panic, the kind she'd seen in patients receiving life-altering diagnoses.
“This isn't happening. This can't be happening. We're not—we didn’t—” Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. “I’m a planner! I have five-year plans for my five-year plans! I don't do spontaneous Vegas weddings! This can’t be real.”
Reed was off the bed in an instant, sheet wrapped around his waist, hands gently grasping her shoulders. “Hey, hey, breathe. With me, okay? In through the nose, out through the mouth.”
She wanted to be annoyed at his calm, but her medical training kicked in, recognizing the signs of her own impending panic attack. She followed his breathing, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest, trying very hard not to notice how that chest tapered to a perfect V at his hips, or how the sheet hung dangerously low.
“Better?” he asked after a minute, his hands still warm on her bare shoulders.
“No,” she answered bluntly. “I married you. In Vegas. While drunk. It's like I'm starring in the world's most clichéd romantic comedy!”
A flicker of something—hurt?—crossed his face before he masked it with another smile. “Come on, there are worse people to accidentally marry. At least I'm house-trained.”
Despite herself, a bubble of hysterical laughter escaped her. “That's your qualification? 'At least I don't pee on the carpet’?”
“I also make excellent pancakes and know how to properly intubate a patient. Triple threat.”
Ava pressed her forehead against his chest, partly to hide her inappropriate smile and partly because standing this close to him felt strangely right, even in the midst of a catastrophe.
“What are we going to do?” she mumbled against his skin. “Noah is going to kill you. Ciponelli already thinks I'm not serious about staying at Elizabethtown General. And we work together!”
Reed's hand found its way to her hair, stroking gently in a way that made her want to purr like a cat. “First things first. Let's take a breath. What happens in Vegas doesn't necessarily have to follow us home.”
She pulled back to look at him, frowning. “What, we just pretend this never happened?”
“We could get it annulled,” he suggested, though something in his tone seemed reluctant. “If that's what you want.”
Was that what she wanted? Last night came back in pieces. His laugh, his hands, the way he'd looked at her like she was the only person in all of Las Vegas worth seeing. The way he'd whispered her name like a prayer when they'd...
Heat flooded her face. “Maybe we should think about this. After coffee. And aspirin. Lots of aspirin. And we say nothing to anyone.”
“Deal.” His smile this time was gentler, more genuine. “Why don't you grab the first shower? I'll order some room service. Greasy hangover food for two coming up.”
She nodded, reluctantly disentangling herself from him and shuffling toward the bathroom, the comforter trailing behind her like a royal train.
“Hey, Ava?” Reed called just as she reached the bathroom door.
“Hmm?” She turned back, finding him examining a piece of paper that had been on the nightstand.
“We might have another problem.” He held up what appeared to be an official document, his expression caught between amusement and alarm.
“What now?” she groaned.
“According to this wedding certificate, you're not Ava Spencer anymore.” He looked up, eyes dancing with suppressed laughter. “You're Ava Campbell.”
“What? I changed my name?”
“And it gets better.” He flipped the paper over. “Apparently, we paid extra for a new package at our Wedding Chapel of Love. Something called the 'Newlywed Forever Package,' which includes having our wedding announcement emailed to our hometown newspaper. With photos, along with a video recording of our ceremony.”
Horror dawned anew. “Please tell me you're joking.”
“I wish I was.” He held up his phone, showing her a digital receipt. “According to this, we provided your brother's email as the contact for your family, and my mother's for mine.”
Ava's knees gave out, and she slid down the doorframe to sit on the floor, comforter billowing around her. “We're dead. We are so, so dead.”
Reed joined her on the floor, sheet and all, his shoulder pressing warmly against hers. “Look on the bright side,” he offered, nudging her gently. “At least we consummated the marriage thoroughly. Several times, if memory serves.”
She punched his arm, but couldn't quite suppress her smile. “You're the worst.”
“That's not what you said last night, Mrs. Campbell.” He waggled his eyebrows in such a ridiculous way that she couldn't help but laugh.
“You're incorrigible.”
“And yet, you married me.” He caught her hand, his thumb brushing over the gold band. “Temporary or not, that makes me the luckiest guy in Vegas.”
Something warm unfurled in her chest, pushing back against the panic. Whatever mess they'd gotten themselves into, at least they were in it together.
“Shower,” she said firmly, pulling herself to her feet. “Then food. Then we figure out how to tell my brother his best friend deflowered and married his little sister in the same night.”
Reed's bark of laughter followed her into the bathroom. “Deflowered? What are you, a Victorian heroine? And I believe we were married first.”
“Shut up!”
“Make me, Mrs. Campbell!”
Ava closed the bathroom door on his laughter, leaning against it with a mixture of mortification and, though she'd never admit it, something that felt suspiciously like happiness.
What happened in Vegas was supposed to stay in Vegas. But as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror—hair wild, lips still swollen from kisses, a suspicious mark blooming on her neck, and that gold band glinting on her finger—she had a sinking feeling that this particular Vegas adventure wasn’t going to be staying in Vegas.
T his was not how his first morning in Vegas was supposed to go. Well, maybe it wasn’t so off base. Hangover? Check. Glitter in weird spots? Unfortunately, check. Waking up with a woman in his bed? Yeah, that had been a possibility.
Waking up with Ava Spencer naked next to him? Not a chance in hell.
And married to her? That wasn’t even in the realm of possibility. Not in his wildest, drunkest, most fever-dreamed imagination.
Reed tilted back in the hotel desk chair, the old springs beneath him groaning in protest. He scrubbed a hand over his face, pressing his thumb and forefinger into his temples as he tried to piece together the night before. The shower had shut off a while ago, followed by the hum of a hairdryer. But the door hadn’t opened yet.
She was in there, overthinking. He just knew it.
Ava overthought everything. He’d seen it in the ER, the way she refused to make a decision until she’d run through every possible outcome. It made her a damn good doctor, but it also meant she second-guessed herself to hell and back. She also got flak from everyone for taking too long with every patient. And right now, she was probably sitting on the bathroom counter, chewing her lower lip, running through every possible way to fix this disaster.
At least he’d found condom wrappers scattered across the floor. That was one thing they hadn’t been completely stupid about. Well…except for the wedding.
The bathroom door cracked open, and a billow of steam rolled into the room before Ava stepped out. Her frame was swallowed up by a white hotel robe, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, wavy now that she hadn’t straightened it. He’d never seen it down before—not at work, not in any of the few interactions they’d had outside of the hospital.
Except last night.
Flashes of memory hit him like a sledgehammer to the skull. Ava straddling him, hair wild and unbound, falling around them like a silken curtain. His hands fisting in those strands as she rode him into oblivion. Her lips parted, breathless and moaning his name like she’d been saying it forever.
His dick twitched.
Not the time.
Judging by the firm set of her jaw and the tightness around her eyes, that wasn’t happening again. Not anytime soon. Maybe not ever.
“Room service, as you requested,” he said, keeping his tone light, like this wasn’t the most surreal morning of his life. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I got a little of everything. Including Diet Coke.”
A flicker of a smile ghosted across her lips, gone before he could fully appreciate it, but then she sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, as if she weren’t sure if it would bite.
She went straight for the Diet Coke, lifting the glass he’d poured for her, and took a long, deep swallow. Her eyes fluttered shut, a quiet sigh slipping past her lips.
“I needed that,” she murmured, almost reverent.
Reed smirked. “What? Three bottles of champagne weren’t enough for you?”
Her eyes snapped open, horror dawning in their depths. “Three bottles?” Her voice rose an octave. “Oh God. How much did that cost?”
He laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Guess we’ll find out when the bill comes. For now, we enjoy breakfast. Then we figure out how to annul this marriage.”
He grabbed a strip of bacon, biting into it, relishing the perfect crunch. Maybe today wasn’t all bad. He had a solid breakfast, a beautiful woman sitting across from him. If he played this right, maybe—just maybe—he could convince Ava to have dinner with him when they got back to Kissing Springs.
Assuming she didn’t hold the whole married-in-Vegas thing against him.
Then a memory slid into place like a puzzle piece.
He paused, the fork halfway to his mouth. “It was your idea.”
Ava’s gaze lifted to his, guilt flashing across her features before she could mask it.
“You remember,” he said slowly, watching her expression. Guilt. Regret. Panic.
She looked away, her fingers tightening around the Diet Coke glass. “I know. I must have been drunk.”
He barked out a laugh. “Well, we’re in the city for it. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who could be impulsive.” He popped a blueberry into his mouth. “I’ll see what it takes to get a quickie divorce. There’s gotta be a place for it.”
She met his gaze then, and his amusement faded.
“That’s not going to work.” She swallowed, gripping the edge of the bed like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth. “Do you remember we had the chapel send an announcement back home? To my brother. To your mom. To the hometown newspaper. We can’t just get a divorce!”
He stared at her. Then shrugged. “Sure we can. We’ll say it was a joke. We got a little crazy in Vegas. Happens all the time.”
“I don’t do that.” Her voice cracked, and then she was on her feet, pacing the space between the bed and the window, the skyline of Vegas sprawling behind her. “I don’t do crazy. I don’t do impulsive. I plan everything. This is so far from who I am. No one will believe I would do this, even as a joke. I’m not you.”
The words landed like a gut punch but kept his face blank, kept the smirk in place even as something sharp twisted inside him. “I know, Ava. Best thing you can do? Just brazen through it. Speaking as the jokester here.”
She stopped pacing, turning to face him. Her lips parted, then closed, like she wanted to take back what she’d said. Finally, she sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that you’re more easygoing than I am.”
He snorted, pushing past the sting. “Yeah. Whatever.”
Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating.
After a minute, Ava sat back down on the edge of the bed, her hands fisted in the fabric of the robe.
“I was thinking,” she said hesitantly.
Reed groaned. “Yeah, because that’s exactly what we need—more thinking.”
She shot him an exasperated look, rolling her eyes. “Maybe we don’t get a divorce.”
For the second time that morning, Reed stared at her.
Either he was still drunk, or Ava Spencer—straight-laced, rule-following Ava—had just suggested they stay married.