Chapter 2
FAYE
HANGOVER & SITUATION ASSESSMENT
Priority Level: CRITICAL
Status: DISASTER IN PROGRESS
CURRENT SYMPTOMS:
Headache: SEVERE
Nausea: Increasing
Memory: Fragmented
Dignity: Missing in action
IMMEDIATE CONCERNS:
Unknown person in bed
Strange ring on finger
Still wearing last night's dress
Smell like a distillery
CONTINGENCY PLANS
A) Quiet escape
B) Fake own death
C) Move to different country
D) NEVER drink tequila again (Blame Justice)
Current Status: One (1) massive life crisis
Threat Level: APOCALYPTIC
Personal Note: Stop panicking. There has to be a logical explanation.
Secondary Note: Why does the other person's breathing sound familiar?
Final Note: Oh god, is that Sam?
T he pounding in my head alerted me to the fact I may have overindulged the night before.
May? Girl, you got wasted.
Vague images of Radley, Felix and Justice plying me with alcohol floated through my head. There’d been shots at the bar followed by terrible karaoke, a greasy kebab on a sidewalk then…something to do with drumsticks??? It all became a bit blurry after that.
I gingerly opened one eye to assess the damage.
Light sensitivity, hammering headache, nauseous stomach, still dressed in my fabulous gown from last night while smelling like a gin factory.
I huffed out a soft groan.
Yep. All evidence indicates I partied like it was 1999.
I screwed my eye closed and reached blindly for the blanket, hauling it up and over my head. I curled my legs into my chest and slid my hands under my cheek only to jerk back when something sharp scrapped my jaw.
Rubbing one hand over the other I found the offensive item.
“What the fuck?” Jerking upright, I tossed the blanket off as I stared at the GIANT FREAKING ROCK on my ring finger.
“Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no!”
A moan came from the other side of the bed.
Squealing in fright, I rolled off the mattress to land with thump on the floor of the hotel room.
Springing back up, I snatched the only item within reach, brandishing it as I waited for the stranger to emerge from under the blankets.
“Who are you and why are you in my room?” I barked, waving my bright pink vibrator from side to side. “Show yourself!”
“Faye?” A horrifyingly familiar, deliciously sexy voice growled from under the blankets. “It’s me. Now be quiet and come back to bed unless you’re planning on ordering a shit-ton of room service and painkillers.”
The vibrator fell limply from my hands, my mouth opening and shutting as I struggled to process the reality of our current predicament.
“ Sam?”
My boss pulled the blankets down, squinting up at me through bloodshot eyes. His dark brown hair stood at strange angles, while his white dress shirt lay open at his throat to reveal a swath of tan skin that remained sun-kissed despite it being mid-Winter.
A present from the sperm donor he’d never met, he’d once told me with a wry laugh before changing the subject.
“What?” He scrubbed a hand over his slightly green face. In the quiet of the room, I could hear his palm rasp against the scruff of his beard.
I swallowed, fighting a wave of nausea. “Are you, by any chance, wearing a wedding ring?”
Please say no. Please say no. Please say ? —
He blinked twice then pulled his left arm from under the bedsheets, thrusting his hand forward.
“Oh,” he murmured, staring at the ring glinting in the warm morning light. “Shit.”
And with that, the floor rushed up to meet me.
“Spending New Year’s Day in a hospital with you wasn’t on my bingo card for this year,” Sam said dryly as he scrolled through his phone from his seat beside my hospital bed.
“Yeah well, people should learn to create bedside tables that don’t permanently injury you.” I lifted the icepack from my head. “Is it bad?”
He glanced up from his scroll, his dark brown eyes narrowing as he assessed my injury. He stood, leaning across the bed. His hand lifted as if to touch me, his eyes soft and assessing. My breath caught as he swept his knuckles over my cheek in a surprisingly tender move.
My heart felt shaky and unsettled. There was a new dynamic between us thanks to the rings on our fingers. But his care when I’d woken, bleeding and disorientated, his gentle, reassuring touches each time I’d been unsure were throwing me off balance.
I didn’t like that I liked it.
“Not at all,” Sam said finally, lying sweetly but outing himself with a poorly concealed wince.
The man had no poker face.
I groaned, slapping the icepack back on my bump. “And just before the tour too.”
Sam snorted. “As if that’s your main concern.”
Damn him, he knew exactly what worried me—the paparazzi.
News of our whirlwind marriage had spread like wildfire. My phone vibrated every 0.2 seconds with some new notification, no doubt most of them coming from my parents demanding to know what the fuck had happened.
You tell me.
It seemed drunk Faye and drunk Sam had decided that getting married at 4am on New Year’s Day was a great idea.
I’ll note that I was apparently drunk enough to get married, but sober enough to remember to wear my silk bonnet to bed.
Priorities, am I right?
I glanced back at Sam, taking in his profile as he resumed scrolling through his phone, assessing the damage.
He still wore his black dress pants and crisp white shirt from the night before—sans jacket and bow tie and plus a shit-ton of wrinkles. He’d tossed a leather jacket over his ensemble as I’d been hustled into an ambulance by some friendly but starstruck paramedics.
I guess it wasn’t every day they were called to the room of a rockstar to deal with the head injury of his PR manager.
And, apparently, wife.
I gulped.
“Oh look, we’ve made the Chars Times,” Sam chuckled. “Damn. That’s a good picture.”
He held up the phone for my perusal and—sure enough—there we stood in technicoloured fabulousness.
Someone must have snapped the photo at last night’s New Year’s Eve gig. I wore the gorgeous floor length red gown that hugged every one of my curves. The shade of the dress, coupled with a light touch of shimmering blush, had made my dark brown skin glow. Whoever sad dark red and melanin didn’t go together was obviously tripping. Sam looked quite dapper in his black tuxedo, complete with a jaunty bow tie. The picture had to have been taken sometime before midnight as we’d partied, prior to ringing in the new year with the epic gig we’d worked all year to secure.
The words began to swirl on the screen. Swallowing against a sudden bout of nausea, I handed him back his cell. “Read it to me.”
“ Samuel Dogg, twenty-eight and lead guitarist of The Wild Ones ,” he glanced up and pointed to himself. “That’s me.”
I suppressed a smile. “Noted.”
“ Has rung in the new year in surprising fashion. Sources from the Little Chapel in Chars have confirmed that the superstar has married hometown friend and the band’s publicist, Faye Moyo. ” He pointed at me. “That’s you.”
A grin tugged at my lips. “I had no idea.”
“Moyo, twenty-seven, has been with the band for five years following her graduation from Ravenburn College with a degree in Marketing and Public Relations. ” Sam cocked one eyebrow. “Has it really been five years?”
“If they printed it in the paper, it must be true.”
“ It is the first marriage for both Dogg and Moyo, who share a close working relationship. ” He frowned. “It is your first marriage, right?”
“As far as I’m aware. Though apparently drunk Faye has a kink for wedding rings.”
My eyes dropped to the evidence—a pair of matching wedding bands glinting on our fingers. Mine was a thinner, more delicate ring, a slim band with a twisted design, like two vines intertwined with tiny sapphires and diamonds. The metal shimmered faintly, catching the light in unexpected ways. It was beautiful and unconventional, but tough enough for a girl who spent most of her days on the road with a rock band.
Sam held up his hand, angling his ring under the light, a hint of a grin tugging at his lips His was a thick band of brushed silver, understated but rugged, with a subtle edge that suited him perfectly.
“Looks like you’ve got good taste, Mrs. Dogg,” he teased, the title sending a tiny thrill down my spine.
I shoved the feeling aside, hiding my uneasy behind my glare. “Don’t push it.”
He returned to the article. “ Dogg said of Moyo in a recent interview with Vanity Fair, ‘Faye is the glue that keeps this band together. She’s more than a publicist—though her marketing genius is unparalleled. She’s as much a member of the band as I am. ’” He glanced up. “I stand by that.”
“I know. Keep reading.”
“It ends with, ‘perhaps this relationship isn’t as surprising as we’ve been led to believe . ’ ”
He chuckled, far too relaxed for the media nightmare we’d drunkenly catapulted ourselves into.
“Is this a laughing matter?” I asked, fidgeting with the bedsheets as my mind raced with ways to minimise the damage. “We’re going to have to organise an annulment. That won’t be hard considering we didn’t consummate the marriage. Wait.” I sat up. “We didn’t consummate, right?”
Sam gestured at my dress. “No.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and sank back against the bed. “Then we should definitely contact the lawyers. Do you think?—”
“Hey.” He interrupted by placing a hand on my shoulder. “Breathe.”
During most PR crises I could be counted upon to be an oasis of calm. An island of competence and serenity in a sea of chaos. I’d steered us through crazed fans, false tax evasion allegations, dating and relationship disasters, and more than one media misstep with poise and grace.
In the face of my own crises, it appeared that all sense of calm had vanished leaving behind a growing avalanche of panic.
“Breathe?” I repeated, swinging my arms out wildly. “What do you mean, breathe? We’re fucked six ways to Friday, Sam. My professional reputation is in tatters. Our work relationship is destroyed . I can never show my face in the Cove again!”
As I tumbled into an emotional black hole, Sam seemed determined to save me from despair.
“It’s not that bad.”
I jabbed a finger at his phone. “We’re on the front freaking page of the Chars Times, Samuel! Are you going to tell me that’s not about to be picked up by—Gods forbid—the goddamned international press?”
He shrugged. “It’s a slow news day. Something new will pop up.”
I fumbled with my bra, tugging out my cell to shove at him. “I have two hundred and forty-three missed calls and over a thousand text messages!”
“Sounds like an average day for you.”
“Men!”
Sam grinned at me—the same grin that sent millions of hearts a flutter every time he performed on stage.
“Oh no.” I waggled my finger at him in warning. “You can’t charm your way out this one, buddy.”
“Honestly, Faye. I don’t see what the big deal is. If anything, this is a boost to our ratings before the tour kicks off next week.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose with my free hand, desperately trying to ignore the pounding in my head. “I hate you.”
“Shh, that’s just the pain talking.”
“Yeah, the pain in my ass,” I muttered, shooting him a glare that told him exactly what, or in this case who , was the source of the pain.
He grinned and ducked his head to scroll on his phone. “You know, being married isn’t a bad thing.”
“No? Enlighten me.”
“There’s an article here called, ‘Five ways being married is good for you’. ”
“Does it include murdering your spouse and inheriting their millions?” I asked sweetly.
“It includes personal growth, health, longevity, life satisfaction and happiness.”
“All of which I can achieve as a single woman who loves herself.”
Sam cocked an eyebrow. “What about orgasms?”
“I believe a vibrator and my hand can take care of that.”
He leaned back in his chair, slipping his cell into his pocket. “Romance is wasted on you.”
“And the gravity of this situation is wasted on you .”
My phone buzzed, and I hauled it out of my bra see my best friend, Hope's smiling face lighting up the screen.
"Don't freak out," I said by way of greeting.
"Too late." Hope's warm drawl practically dripped with amusement. "Your brother already text me—not that I needed the update, you’re all over the news. Married, Faye? To Sam? Really?"
I groaned. “I know, this is a disaster.”
"Is it? Because from where I'm sitting in Grandma's kitchen, it looks like you finally let yourself have something you wanted instead of something you planned."
I winced at the reminder. We normally spent New Years together, dancing off into the night. But her grandmother had experienced some health issues over the last year and Hope had agreed to move back to Peach Springs, a small town in Georgia, to care for her.
I missed Hope like crazy and despised that we didn’t get to hang out much anymore.
"That's exactly the problem! I don't do unplanned, Hope. I don't do spontaneous. I definitely don't do drunken Vegas-style weddings with my client!"
"First, it wasn't Vegas. Second, Sam's more than your client and we both know it."
More than my client? He was my friend, sure. A good friend. A great friend, even. But it was ridiculous of her to suggest he might be anything more. Absolutely positively ridiculous. He and I made no sense.
And yet…
I sank onto the bed, cutting him a look.
He raised his eyebrows, taking the hint. “I’ll just go get some coffee.”
I watched him leave, for some reason finding my gaze stuck to his ass.
Stupid concussion.
“Okay, I can speak. He’s stepped out.”
Hope chuckled. “See? He’s a good guy. You could have done worse.”
"He's my friend."
"Mmhmm. And how many 'friends' do you bake birthday cupcakes for at 3am because they mentioned once that a foster mom used to make them?"
My cheeks heated, memories of that night flooding back—me in my kitchen at an ungodly hour, exhausted but carefully measuring out ingredients because Sam had casually mentioned something nostalgic over lunch.
"That was... professional courtesy."
"Sure it was, sugar. Just like those late-night phone calls about his songwriting are 'professional development.'"
"Hope..." I didn’t have the capacity to consider this right now.
"I'm just saying, maybe this isn't the disaster you think it is. Maybe it's the universe giving you a chance to explore something new."
"The universe should mind its own business."
Her laugh was warm and familiar. "Love is the universe's business.”
“Says the romance novelist.”
She snorted. “Don’t try to change the subject. Tell me everything. And I mean everything ."
I winced, feeling exposed, like she’d peeled back a layer I wasn’t ready for her to see. There was too much swirling inside me—confusion, embarrassment, a nagging ache that maybe, just maybe, she’d hit on something real, something I wasn’t ready to admit even to myself.
I closed my eyes against the bright lights of the room. “Do you mind if I call you tomorrow instead? I think I might have a concussion.”
“Shit, how?”
I cleared my throat, mumbling into the phone.
“Did you say you fainted and are at the hospital?”
I made a noise of affirmation.
“Damn girl, what a wild wedding night. Go rest. Text when you feel better.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you too, Faye. Be safe. And remember—Sam is one of the good ones.”
Sam was one of the good ones. The kind of good that felt rare, almost too rare to belong to someone like me. And maybe that was what terrified me most—the idea that I’d fallen for someone without even realizing it, that this chaotic, spontaneous mess of a night was more than just a mistake.
Nope. Not going there. This is a mistake fuelled by booze and good cheer. Nothing more, nothing less.
It had to be. Anything else would be unacceptable.
I slipped my phone back into my bra, only to for it to buzz once again as Sam returned to the room.
I pulled out the offending object as he resumed his seat, tossing it on the bed. “Deal with that, would you?”
“Isn’t that your job?” he asked, picking up my phone.
“I’m taking a personal day.” I forced myself to relax against the thin, plastic mattress, closing my eyes to the brightness of the room.
“Hello?” Sam answered the phone. “Ah, Mister Moyo, lovely to speak to you.”
I jerked upright, reaching across the bed to grab the phone from Sam. The bastard stood, walking away from me.
“Give it to me,” I hissed, my heart slamming against my chest as Sam ignored me.
“Yes, sir. We’re at the hospital. Faye’s had a bit of a fall and appears to be concussed.” Sam nodded as he listened to whatever my dad was saying on the other end of the line. “I understand, sir. If you like, I can arrange to fly you out here today if that might give you and Mrs Moyo some comfort?”
I shook my head frantically and immediately regretted the movement as a tidal wave of nausea burned up my throat. I grabbed frantically for the collapsible vomit bag beside the bed. I heard a clatter then Sam was there, sweeping up my braids and holding them back as I vomited into the plastic bag.
“Oh gods,” I groaned as my world spun wildly. “I’m going to kill whoever thought footboards made of wood were a good idea.”
Sam gently took the bag away, disposing of it as I lay back, pressing the icepack to my aching forehead.
“Close your eyes,” he said, gently holding a small cup of water to my lips. “Rest while I finish talking to your parents.”
I took the cup, swishing water around my mouth as I listened, too dizzy, in pain and embarrassed to stop him.
“Sorry for dropping the phone. Faye needed my help.” Sam plucked the cup from my hands, placing it on the bedside table. “I understand. It’s been a surprise for us too.”
I closed my eyes, desperate to silence the pounding in my head.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, yes, Chidi.”
That was enough to have me opening my eyes. My father had not permitted any of my previous boyfriends to call him by his first name.
“I will. I’ll call you as soon as I know more. Yes, sir—I mean, Chidi. Bye.”
I watched Sam through narrowed eyes as he turned back to me, balking at my look.
“What?” he asked defensively.
“Are you on a first name basis with my father?”
Sam ignored the question. “How are you feeling?”
“Like Wiley Coyote is blowing up dynamite in my brain.”
“Wow, way to age yourself.”
I snorted. “Sorry, should I have said Perry the Platypus? And don’t think I don’t see you deflecting. Answer the question.”
Sam frowned. “Should we call a nurse? Want me to see if we can get you some pain relief?”
“No, I want to know about you and my dad.”
Sam cleared his throat, a slight blush creeping up his neck.
“Samuel,” I growled in warning.
“We’re in the same fantasy football league. We text regularly.”
I blinked then blinked again. “Did you say you text with my father? The man who hates texting and would rather crawl across the continent than type out some much as a single letter?”
“Maybe he hates texting with you, but the guy blows up my DMs.” Sam handed me his phone. “Look.”
I scrolled slowly, unable to comprehend the volume of trash talk—including emojis and gifs—my father and Sam exchanged.
“Dear lord,” I whispered, handing the phone back to Sam. “You’re dating my dad. My entire life is a lie.”
My bombshell realization interrupted by a cheerful nurse holding a small paper cup.
“Good news,” she said, shaking the cup gently. “The doctor has approved some painkillers while you wait for the results. These’ll help take the edge off. Though, be warned, they might make you a little loopy or sleepy.”
I didn’t give a shit so long as they helped with the pain.
I downed the pills, chasing them with a shot of water, while she checked my vitals.
“Any other changes apart from the vomiting and dizziness?”
“No.”
“Good.” She made a note on my file then tucked it into the board at the bottom of the bed. “Alright, shouldn’t be much longer. We’re just waiting for a final check of the CT then the doctor will be back to explain the results to you. Just hit that buzzer if you need anything.”
The pills took over quickly, easing the pain and leaving me with a euphoric, floating feeling.
“I wonder if this is what flying feels like,” I muttered, enjoying the sensation. “Do you think if we inhaled enough helium we could fly?”
Sam snorted. “I doubt it. I think you’d end up suffocating way before that.”
I raised both arms gently undulating them. “We should fly away. That’d quiet the press.”
“We’re not flying away.”
I dropped my arms. “Then we should stay married.”
Sam brushed a hand across my arm. “What?”
I peeked at him from under the icepack. “We should stay married. Until the end of the tour. It’ll generate interest from your fans, and intrigue from the press. Then it’ll all settle down and we can quietly annul after the tour when we’re not constantly in front of the media.”
Sam frowned. “You’d be willing to do that?”
“Sure.” I closed my eyes again. “But only if you give me a raise. And a prenup. Don’t want you stealing all my debt.”
He snorted, sweeping a loose braid back as he gently stroked my cheek. “Sleep, Faye. I’ll work something out.”
“Okay,” I agreed, and promptly did just that.