Wet Hot Summer (Summer Love #1)

What happens in Vegas.

Gina

February

My last questionable decision was four years ago when I ate Mrs. Jenning’s potato salad at Havenwood’s annual potluck.

I knew better, but she put it on my plate, and I had no choice but to eat it.

I spent the weekend on the bathroom floor moaning my regrets to the cold porcelain gods.

Food poisoning—and the lengths I now go to to avoid that potato salad—is about as exciting as my life gets.

So when I grab my pillow to stuff it deeper under my neck and discover my pillow is a rock-hard biceps, I know, even in my booze-soaked state, that I have made a mistake.

When I raise my head to investigate, the world spins in pinks, reds, and dim morning light. With a groan, I give up, dropping back onto the warm arm. The arm’s owner rolls over, wrapping me in a whole-body embrace. It feels so good I melt into it. I haven’t had anyone hold me like this for years.

So, who’s holding me?

Eh. Who cares? If stranger danger, why cuddly-shaped? It makes perfect sense in my head.

But now that I’m semi-awake, I’m aware of how close I am to tipping into the inevitable consequences of leaving my personality behind last night, a.k.a. a hangover, a.k.a. at the age of thirty-four, certain death.

My enthusiastic cuddler murmurs something against my neck as his hips nestle against me. He immediately falls back asleep without once grinding his morning wood against my butt. It’s a small miracle I’m grateful for.

Large miracle. He might not be rubbing it on me, but I can still feel it through the blankets separating us. I’m tempted to wiggle back on it, which means I’m definitely still drunk. I can’t remember the last time I had more than a drink or two. What was I thinking?

Live a little Gina, my mother said in her text last night—the text informing me she wasn’t coming to meet me at the all-male revue she’d been so excited about.

We were supposed to celebrate her fiftieth birthday, but she met someone at a casino.

Go out, meet someone, get wild. You’re only young for a short time.

It’s not the first time she’s nagged me about not having a life.

Well, Mom , I imagine saying, I did what you suggested. And I woke up with a stranger. Happy now?

She would be, which is annoying.

Thinking about my mother sobers me up better than a strong cup of coffee. I need to get up and figure out where I am.

I carefully slide out from under my drunken mistake’s limbs and ease myself out of bed.

The room spins, but the man doesn’t wake up, for which I’m grateful.

I am not ready for that level of embarrassment, though it feels inevitable.

Thank god what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. If only I could remember what happened.

The room stops spinning, and— oh .

The witness to my departure from sanity is so unbelievably gorgeous that I simply stare for a full minute, or maybe eternity.

He’s sleeping shirtless on top of the blankets.

I’ve never seen muscles like his in real life—they’re so perfectly defined he could be a model.

Broad shoulders. Abs for days. A boyish lock of wavy, warm brown hair falls over his forehead, touching long, inky lashes.

He looks younger than me. He’s still wearing his pants, and there’s a moon boot on one foot because—

I remember. He was running drinks last night but he’s a dancer from the all-male revue my mother ditched me at.

Oh my god, I pulled Magic Mike.

An incredulous snort rips out of me. I clamp my hand over my nose and mouth, but he doesn’t stir.

Guess what, Mom? Your boring, responsible, stick-in-the-mud daughter got wasted in Vegas and woke up with a stripper who barely looks old enough to drink.

I’m not even sure I believe I did this, even though here I am .

And here seems to be the love child of a Valentine’s Day card rack and a cheesy Zillow listing.

The headboard is an actual large red heart.

Blankets in a deep, blushing pink cover the massive mattress.

The art on the walls is not explicit but suggestive in a that-might-be-a-nipple sort of way. It’s like a tacky honeymoon sui—

Oh no.

We didn’t.

We couldn’t have.

I take four deep breaths before looking at my left hand.

A massive gem that has to be fake glitters pink in the dim light filtering through the red curtains. A plain gold band holds the loose ring in place.

There’s a card on the table next to a half-empty bottle of bubbly, so I pick it up. ‘Congratulations’ is scrawled in silver lettering with confetti. Inside the card, someone has written our names.

“Benji.” I barely whisper it. So that’s his name. He looks like a Benji. All boyishly charming.

I frown over the rest of the message. ‘Wishing you a long and happy marriage.’

This has to be a joke. People don’t just get married in Vegas on a whim—do they? There must be a license to obtain and a standard of sobriety I wouldn’t have passed last night. Maybe we faked getting married for the honeymoon suite—but why?

We were drunk, so the answer was probably, why not?

“Gina,” Benji murmurs sleepily, and I nearly leap out of my skin. “Come back to bed.” He reaches out and snags my pillow, pulling it tight against his chest and nuzzling into it.

My phone buzzes from my jacket, but he’s sound asleep again.

Are you at the airport already? You aren’t in your room. Are you pissed about last night?

Mom

I glance at the time, and my heart stops.

It’s 9:30.

My stomach lurches as my adrenaline spikes. I don’t know where I am, but I need to get back to my hotel for my things. I’m not sure I’ll make my flight home.

Meet you at the gate , I text her. Ten million things might distract her, but there’s no time to worry about that. For better or worse, my mom is on her own.

There’s no time to wake Benji up for goodbyes, so I grab a pen off the desk and quickly write “Thanks for last night” on the back of the card. Despite remembering nothing, I add “I’ll remember it forever” and sign my name.

Jamming my feet into my shoes, I quickly check to ensure I’m not leaving anything behind other than the person I was last night. And the person I was with.

Then I’m out the door. Reliable, dependable Gina. Still a little drunk but on her way home.