Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Leon
I grumble as the sunlight pours through the windows because we forgot to close the curtains when we rolled in at two o’clock this morning, or was it three? Shit, maybe it was four o’clock. I can’t remember. In fact, I can’t remember much about last night at all after we hit the nightclub.
Glimmers and flashbacks shoot through my mind.
Shots.
Dancing.
More shots.
Limousine.
Pizza?
That’s about as much as I remember.
Oh, wait, did Erika dance on the bar?
What a night.
“Ugh.” Clenching my eyes shut to shield them from the sun that’s strong enough to kill a vampire, I press my fingertips into my thumping temples.
Even if I can’t remember everything that happened last night, my pounding headache reminds me of the amount of alcohol I consumed.
I need Advil and water. Stat. “Fuck.” I want to move, but lifting my head, which feels like dead weight, seems impossible.
I’m getting too old for this. I used to be able to party all night and into the next morning, but those days are long gone, and now my body feels like it’s been through several rounds with a heavyweight boxer.
I unpeel my tongue from the roof of my mouth, which is drier than a sand-filled sandwich, still considering whether I should move. It’s just as well we aren’t scheduled to fly to Bora Bora until later this evening because I’m in hangover hell.
I am never doing J?ger Bombs again.
Tentatively, I roll my head to the side and slowly open my eyes, look down, and discover I am lying on the bed fully clothed next to Erika, who is also still wearing the dress she wore last night and looked like a billion dollars in; every guy at dinner couldn’t keep their eyes off her.
I must have told her how beautiful she looked over a dozen times.
Maybe it’s because she’s mine now and we’re giving us a shot, but all I wanted to do was kiss her, dance with her, sit her on my lap.
Hell, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Now that part, I do remember.
I decide to let her sleep off her hangover and roll over on my side to pull my phone off the nightstand to check the time: midday. I’m thankful I organized a late checkout today.
Confused by the hundreds of notifications on my phone screen, I scroll through the endless preview comments and likes from an Instagram post that has blown up overnight.
I knew you two were always going to happen.
Congrats, guys.
You two look gorgeous together.
This is next-level love.
OMG, I never thought you would lock someone down.
RIP to the DMs from hot girls, Leon.
Okay, now make some cute babies.
Wasn’t expecting this. Ever.
She wore that dress? Bold.
This is elite energy.
I’m off to cry into my breakfast bowl.
About damn time!
Shit. What the fuck happened in the night? My heart begins to race.
When I notice over twenty missed calls from Ash, real unstoppable pressure builds in my chest.
Something’s happened.
I hit the Instagram icon, then tap my profile photo. Instantly, the blood drains from my body, turning my stomach to knots.
There’s a new post there. Of me… and… I squint before opening it up… Erika.
“What the fuck?” I catapult upward much faster than my head and stomach would like, and click on the photo of Erika and me that I don’t remember taking or uploading in the early hours of this morning.
My mouth drops open in shock because right there in full color, in that photo, Erika and I are kissing.
But that’s not the worst part. She’s holding up her hand to the camera, wearing a gold wedding band with a caption that simply says, She said yes.
I’ve even tagged her in the photo and everything.
Oh.
My.
Fucking.
God.
It was bad enough when we woke up to a barrage of headlines and a photo of us kissing in the celebrity gossip columns, but this, this is so much worse.
Fuck me sideways. Ash is going to kill me. I’m toast.
A million thoughts race through my mind as I leap out of bed, my skin clammy as bile creeps up my throat, not from a hangover but from fear.
Looking around the room, my eyes land on Erika’s hand, and there it is: a fucking wedding ring, teasing me like it’s the world’s biggest prankster.
Fuck.
I then check my own hand, and recoil in astonishment. I have one too.
Double fuck.
I think I’m on the verge of having a heart attack, feeling more lightheaded than I was before, a cold sweat breaking out across my body.
Eyeing a folded piece of paper on the nightstand beside Erika, I run over and grab it, then unfold it with trembling hands.
And there it is. It’s officially signed and dated from the Marriage License Bureau, which I only know is open twenty-four-seven because one of my clients got married last year.
There’s no waiting period. You just show the fuck up, obtain the license all within a couple of hours, and boom… you’re married.
I drop my ass onto the edge of the mattress, trying to make sense of our in-the-heat-of-the-moment decision, and place the license back on the nightstand.
Wait. Did that actually happen?
I check the ring on my finger again. Yup… it’s still there.
Holy shit, I have a wife.
Dr. Erika Johansson.
She’s not that anymore; she’s Dr. Erika Hill, although she may want to keep Johansson as her professional name. We’ll see.
Whatever happens, this is wild.
Although, now that I’ve had a couple of minutes to think about it, this could be the best thing I’ve ever done. She’s mine now. Forever.
My cell phone shrills again, making me jump, and right there in big letters is Ash’s name. I stare at it as if willing it to stop, its persistence gnawing at my insides.
I can’t pick up; not yet.
Because I have no idea what to say. There’s no explanation for our stupidity.
Or maybe it was a genius plan.
Either way, I’m in hell, and I’d put money on it that Ash is working out how to kill me in the slowest and most painful way.
“Stop with the noise.” Erika groans long and gruffly.
I kill the ringer and toss it on the bed. “Erika, you gotta wake up, baby.”
“Five minutes,” she grumbles.
“We don’t have five minutes.” We do, but I’m partly overwhelmed and partly excited, and I need to share this outlandish situation we have gotten ourselves into.
“What time is it?” she moans, unmoving.
I push her hair off her face to discover her cheek smooshed against the mattress. Even on her worst days, she still looks beautiful. “Midday.”
“Our flight isn’t for hours yet.” Her sleep-filled voice sounds raspy.
“I need to talk to you.”
She waves me off. “Unless you have Mickey D’s, I’m going back to sleep.”
“I have Mickey D’s,” I lie, willing her to turn onto her back. Reason number six hundred and two of what I love about her—she loves food.
Still lying on her front, she pops an eye open and rolls her head a little so she can side-eye me. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Hill.”
Well, wait until you hear what I have to say first, Mrs. Hill.
This is insane.
Erika turns onto her back, wiping under her eyes to swipe away the smudges of last night’s eyeliner she still has on. It’s still perfect, just like her.
She lets out a long, drawn-out yawn and looks around. “I can’t see or smell any food.”
“I lied. I don’t have food, but I will call the concierge and order a Mickey D’s for you.”
“Perfect.” She frowns at me and lifts her hand to my face.
“What’s this?” she asks, poking at the deep lump of worry that’s formed between my brows.
As if her brain glitches for a second, she stares at her left hand, then the same bump as mine forms between her brows too.
“What. Is. That?” She holds the hand that’s wearing a wedding ring out in front of her.
“Ah, so that’s what I needed to talk to you about. I have one too.” I flash her mine.
Her jaw drops, as if to speak, but nothing comes out.
“We got married last night.” I’m blunt, but how else am I going to tell her? There is no way to sugarcoat it or wrap it in a bow.
Nervous laughter leaves her throat, her face changing from amusement to disbelief. “You’re screwing with me?”
“I’m not.”
She holds her pointer finger in the air and waggles it. “No. Uh-uh. Nope.” She shakes her head as if she’s unable to absorb what we did. “That can’t be right. We didn’t… we never…”
I hold up the piece of paper to show her that, yes, we did.
She inhales a sharp breath, her eyes widening as if a light bulb went on in her head.
“What the hell are we going to do?” she yells, springing up into a sitting position, then scrambling off the bed.
“Leon, what were we thinking? This… me and you… this is... big leaps… bigger than both of us…” She motions to the space between us.
“It’s not.” It’s wrong of me, but wickedly, I’m loving her mini spiral because while I might have felt the same way just minutes ago, I can’t deny how much I want her. I want this. I always have, and maybe this is what is meant for us.
Running her hands through her long brunette locks, she paces back and forth, her tight mini dress moving further up her thighs. “This is super-fast.” She holds her hand out in front of her again to check the ring, to admire it, I hope, and shakes her head, almost out of breath.
“It is,” I agree.
“And reckless. Batshit crazy.”
“It’s the most impulsive thing I’ve ever done.” Everything I do in my life is considered; I have lawyers who check everything twice, if not three times, so getting married while under the influence is unlike me.
Halting her stride, she puts her hands on her hips and stares me down. “Why are you not on the verge of having a breakdown?”
“I’ve had about five minutes more than you to process it.” Also, because, you know, I kinda fucking like that we’re married. No, I don’t just like it, I love it.
Animated and frantic, her chest moving in sharp breaths, she blurts, “We can’t tell anyone.”
I physically recoil, a knot of embarrassment in my stomach. “It’s a little too late for that.”