Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
SCARLETT
Iwake up dying.
There’s no other explanation for the pounding in my skull or the dry, sandpaper feel of my mouth. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. My head throbs with every heartbeat—loud, relentless, punishing.
For a second, I don’t move. Because moving feels like a bad idea. And I’ve already made enough of those.
Then… I become aware of two things.
One. I’m not alone.
Two. My hand hurts. My left ring finger.
I frown, lifting it slowly into view. There’s ink on my finger—dark, permanent.
Not a smudge. Not a stamp.
A ring.
Of fire.
My stomach drops. “No way,” I whisper.
Memory doesn’t come back all at once.
It hits in pieces.
His hands. My laugh. The way I pulled him closer instead of pushing him away… how he said my name like it meant something.
Oh no.
“Oh no,” I say out loud this time.
Something shifts beside me—warm, solid, and very much real.
I turn my head. And there he is.
Donovan.
Phoenix.
Flat on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes like he’s trying to block out the world. Or maybe the consequences of it.
For a moment, I just stare. Because now that I’m not drunk, and he’s not wearing a shirt, he’s… a lot.
Broad shoulders. Defined chest. Skin still warm like the night hasn’t quite let go of him yet.
My eyes drag lower before I can stop them.
It’s a mistake.
Now I remember what it felt like to touch him.
Heat climbs into my cheeks.
Is he naked?
Am I?
I pat my body beneath the sheets.
Slow at first. Then faster.
Oh.
Oh my God.
I freeze.
Because there’s no version of this where I’m fully dressed… or even wearing socks.
I fight the urge to gasp. Or wrap myself in the sheet and sprint wildly for the bathroom. But the thought of making a noise, let alone moving, makes my head spin.
And Phoenix just keeps lying next to me like he belongs here. Like I do, too.
Nope.
Absolutely not. Abort mission.
I start to sit up and freeze.
Because I am very, very aware of my body. Of the way the sheet tangles around me. Of the heat still lingering between my thighs and the soreness that has nothing to do with the hangover.
My breath catches.
Oh.
Oh.
That answers that.
“We didn’t just get married, did we?” I whisper.
A low groan answers me. “Define ‘just,’” Phoenix mutters.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “This is bad.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Starting to get that.”
I risk another glance at him.
He lowers his arm slowly, blinking against the light. His gaze lands on me, sharpening.
“You okay?” he asks.
I laugh—too loud, too fast. “Define ‘okay.’”
His mouth twitches. Then his gaze drops. Just briefly.
But long enough. Heat rushes up my neck.
“Well, then,” I say quickly. “So. That happened.”
“Looks like it.”
I press my hands to my face.
“Tell me we at least made it upstairs before—”
“We did.”
I pause… then peek at him through my fingers. “You sound very sure of that.”
“I remember enough,” he says.
My stomach flips. “Enough?”
His gaze meets mine again. Darker now.
He’s not embarrassed, I realize. That might be worse.
“What do you remember?” I ask carefully.
He studies me for a second. Like he’s deciding how much to say. “Enough to know I’m not forgetting it.” His voice drops on the last word.
He isn’t joking or embarrassed. Honestly, the only way I can describe his voice—his look—is certain. And somehow that makes all of this so much more confusing.
His thumb brushes his own mouth, like he’s remembering something.
“You laughed,” he says quietly. Like it meant something to him.
My breath catches.
“What?”
“Last night.” His gaze flicks to me. “Right before you kissed me.”
My breath catches. Oh. That’s… that’s not helping. Not one bit.
It’s making it worse.
I drop my hands, staring at him.
“We got married,” I say slowly, like repeating it might wipe the whole night away.
“Yeah.”
“And then we—”
“Yeah.”
I swallow. Hard.
Silence settles between us. Heavy.
I look down at my hand again. At the inked ring, feeling the faint soreness all over again.
“This was supposed to be a bad decision.” I press my fingers to my temples.
His brow lifts slightly. “Pretty sure it still qualifies.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I shift, pulling the sheet tighter around me.
“This was also supposed to be something I could walk away from. My last hurrah.”
Something easy and reckless. Something that wouldn’t matter in the morning. But that was before tattoos, scorching memories, and a naked firefighter who doesn’t look like he’s ready to dart for the door.
“Last hurrah?” he asks. “Before what?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say too quickly. “Just like this. None of it matters.”
His jaw tightens, and his eyes sharpen just a fraction. “Is that what you want?” he asks. His voice is quieter now and serious.
This isn’t a joke for him. Not something he’ll laugh about later. And it’s obvious he cares. Maybe more than he should.
His gaze doesn’t leave mine, as if he’s memorizing the answer.
My chest tightens. Because the answer should be yes. It should be pretty damn easy since he’s more or less a stranger.
But somehow it suddenly isn’t.
“I don’t know,” I admit, frowning.
And that might be the most dangerous thing I’ve said since meeting him.
He stares at his finger now, eyes narrowing around our matching ink. “My parents are gonna love that.”
That earns a laugh I immediately regret. “Parents? That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”
His gaze fixes on me. “Catholic. Staunch Catholic. There’s no room for Elvis… or this,” he says wagging his finger.
“Something we have in common,” I say, relief threading my voice, though I don’t know why. “I am, too.”
“Well, that’s at least something,” he says, face somber. He doesn’t speak after that, just rests his forearm on his eyes again like he’s taking a nap.
I can’t take the silence.
“You have to say something.”
“Like what?” he asks, stretching and grimacing. “Too soon to move,” he groans.
That sends a pulse low where it shouldn’t. Low. Immediate. Impossible to ignore.
I squeeze my legs together, feeling the proof again… of what we did. Of what my body is suddenly begging for.
Heat and breath. Eyes that simmered, fingers that grazed over warm flesh… and something I wasn’t counting on.
Reverence.
“I dunno,” I confess, barely able to move my head.
“Don’t know what?”
“Exactly what we did last night. It’s all still kind of a blur.”
“That memorable?” he mutters, shifting his head just enough to look at me.
“Well, what do you remember?” I fire back.
“Enough.”
Enough and not much. Winning combination. “You know, my mom won’t be too pleased by this, either,” I say eyeing my ink.
“Looks pretty permanent to me,” he says, clearing his throat, and moving carefully to turn toward me.
“All of this does,” I say. “What do we do?”
“First, sleep some more. Then, get breakfast,” he says firmly.
“Sleep and get breakfast?” I repeat like he’s spoken a sacrilege.
“That’s all I’ve got for you now,” he says, settling onto his back and again, closing his eyes.
“Wife.”
The word lands.
And there’s no pretending it didn’t happen.