3. Zack
Chapter 3
Zack
M y eyes flicker open to a ceiling that isn’t mine. The air is heavy with the mingling scents of lavender, freshly brewed coffee, and the subtle hint of expensive perfume. I squint against the morning light spilling through unfamiliar drapes.
Beside me, there’s a rise and fall of gentle breathing.
Not alone.
My pulse kicks up a notch. I turn, and there she is—Bianca Fitzgerald, her honey-blonde curls splayed over the pillow, looking like a fallen angel with a tiara askew atop her head. Her skin is tan and flawless. Her leg drapes over mine, a white garter band hugging her thigh just beneath the hem of her black dress. Wait, a garter?
Uh… did we have sex?
No, couldn’t be. No lingering warmth or smell of shared intimacy clings to us. There’s no disheveled undress or aftermath glow. We’re both fully clothed, her in a silk evening outfit that’s seen better days, and me in a crumpled suit jacket that screams of last night’s reckless abandon.
I slip out from beneath Bianca’s arm, careful not to wake her. The plush carpet caresses my bare feet, each step a gentle massage as I stand still, taking in the unfamiliar luxury suite.
The Oasis Hotel. My brother, Devin’s new hotel. It’s all coming back now. The dare, the rush downstairs, the wedding chapel. Holy hell.
“Damn it, Zack,” I mutter to myself, rubbing a hand down my face. This is chaos, even for me.
Did we really tie the knot? Nah. I would remember if Bianca Fitzgerald—the ice queen of Vegas nightlife, my most infuriating competitor—had crossed that line with me. But then again, alcohol has a way of blurring events and erasing memories.
Bianca stirs, sitting up slowly, blinking away sleep. I watch her—the tilt of her head and the crease in her brow deepening—all signs of her own disbelief mirroring mine.
She blinks more, her long lashes fluttering as confusion tightens her brow. Mortification colors her cheeks when her gaze lands on me. “Zack?”
Her vocal cords are hoarse, laced with confusion. Searching me for answers, her eyes widen in disbelief and her lips part in a silent plea for an explanation. ”What happened?”
“Hey, you’re awake.” I offer a half-smile, but there’s a twitch in my jaw. With anxiety simmering beneath my surface, I shove my hands through my hair. “I’m trying to figure that out.”
My mouth is dry, and I can taste the remnants of last night’s alcohol on my tongue. The situation should make me laugh, but the evidence is too bizarre. “I don’t think we did anything.” I feel like I’m trying to convince myself more than her. “But then there’s the question of your… accessories.”
Her eyes drop to the garter, her fingers skimming over the delicate lace before she rips it off with uncharacteristic haste, discarding it onto the bed. The tiara follows, tossed aside carelessly. It clangs against a bedside table, its fall noisy.
She rubs her temples. “Accessories that make little sense.”
The space between us holds a plethora of unanswered questions. It’s ridiculous. Laughable, even. Yet, neither of us is laughing.
Her disheveled appearance draws me in. Her usually sleek and immaculate hair is now messy and tousled, while her typically perfectly put-together outfit is wrinkled. And an unmistakable trace of hedonistic havoc mars her usually smooth features.
“Look, Bianca—” My voice catches and I’m struck by an unexpected surge of attraction. Arousal spreads through my groin like wildfire. Perhaps it’s the result of the badly needed sex we never had.
She stands now, her movements filled with purpose. She looks like a messy angel with her golden curls and vulnerable confusion. “We must figure this out.”
My mouth goes dry as I swallow, my tongue tingling with the taste of anticipation and longing. I moisten my lips and drag my eyes away from her body.
We need distance or clarity, because whatever happened last night, it’s changed the game. And I’m not sure yet whether that’s a win or loss. I nod, my jaw set. “Agreed.”
I need answers. Striding from the bedroom, I pace the living room. The suite is chaos, with streamers strewn across the floor and empty champagne bottles winking at us from every corner. And then there’s the paraphernalia: sequined jumpsuits on hangers and oversized sunglasses scattered like confetti. My pulse races, each discovery a blow.
I grab an Elvis wig from a chair and toss it onto the bed where Bianca sits. It lands with a soft thud, with synthetic hair splayed in all directions. “Look at this.”
She flinches before her eyes widen, taking in the craziness. “Is that…?”
“Elvis’s hair? Looks like it.”
I shudder, the unease in my brain growing larger.
This isn’t just post-drunk regret. This is monumental, like Grand Canyon big.
My gaze sweeps across the suite, taking in every tiny detail, from the ornate gold accents to the plush velvet upholstery, as if imprinting the image in my memory.
Abstract paintings adorn the walls of the suite, their vibrant colors infusing the space with a touch of romantic elegance.
Two crystal glasses sit beside a bouquet of red roses. Some of the delicate petals are scattered along the dresser, creating an intimate and luxurious ambiance.
I move to the dresser and my fingers skim over the surface until they bump against a piece of paper. I recognize it before I even pick it up.
A marriage certificate glares up at me. It has our names scrawled across it in loopy handwriting, along with the King’s flamboyant signature at the bottom.
“What is that?” Bianca’s voice trembles, a whisper of fear threading through it.
I give her the document. “Proof.”
Her eyes are wide when a hollow laugh comes from her mouth. She holds the paper with a shaky hand as she reads the contents. “This isn’t real.”
Seeing her laugh—it does something to me. Standing still, I get an overwhelming urge to taste her skin and savor every inch of her. I breathe in deep and refocus on the paper.
The marriage certificate is like a heavyweight championship belt I never intended to win. Turning, I face her. “Real or not, we’re in this together.”
“Zack—” Bianca starts, but words seem to fail her as she stares at the paper.
“Look, Bianca. I’ve been wanting you in my bed for a long time now. That’s obvious. But this…” I motion to the room, to the evidence of our drunken matrimony. “This is crazy, even for me.”
Her gaze meets mine, and there’s something vulnerable in those caramel eyes.
The energy of Vegas pulses down on the street, but in the room, it’s quiet disorder.
I scratch my temple. “We are the king and queen of Vegas nightlife—not exactly a fairy tale. Yet here we are.”
“King and Queen?” A small smile plays on her lips. “No. More like a joker and a fool.”
Leaning against a modern armoire, I rub the back of my neck. “Which one am I?”
Her laughter is a melody over the off-key hum of uncertainty. “Guess that depends on the hand we’ve been dealt.”
I’m in awe of her every move. Even now, she’s a rare, graceful woman who can match my wild behavior with class. “Seems like we went all-in without looking at our cards.”
“Maybe we should fold.” There’s a tremor in her voice, a crack in her poise that draws me closer.
I step forward, her body pulling me like a magnet. My needs are reckless and insane, but it’s there—undeniable. “Or we play the game.”
She sighs and stretches her neck as she gives the certificate back to me.
This is a mess. I stand there, holding the absurd situation in my hands. The marriage certificate is heavy, like it’s soaked with the weight of last night’s tequila.
Bianca’s fingers brush mine as she takes the document back from me.
Another arousal hits my groin. God, I want her. Badly.
She scans through the words on the paper again. “Zack, we can’t actually be married. This is Vegas, sure, but…”
“Vegas or not,” I interrupt, my eyes locked on hers. “Something happened between us, and I’m not just talking about the chapel.”
Her gaze holds mine with the same heat and her cheeks flush. “Yeah, something stupid.”
“Maybe.” I step closer, drawn to her like gravity while our wedding song, ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’, plays through my brain for the fortieth time.
She doesn’t step back. Her eyes drop to my lips for a beat too long before meeting my gaze again. “There’s no way this is real. This is totally fake.”
My throat tightens as I attempt to speak, my fingers itching to reach out and brush away the unruly strands of her hair from her face. “Is it?”
“Uh… yes.” Her body leans toward mine, like she’s fighting a battle she’s not sure she wants to win. Her silk evening outfit clings to her seductive breasts, the fabric slightly wrinkled and the hem askew.
I can almost feel the heat radiating off of her body, her skin flushed and warm. My hands tingle with the urge to reach out and touch her, to run them through her hair and down her bare arms.
There’s a part of me—a big part—that wants to pull her into me and remind her of the fire that drove us to do the unthinkable. But then I remember the garter, the tiara, and the ludicrousness of it all. We took things too far.
“Okay.” I step back, putting space between temptation and reason. “We’ll get this sorted.”
“Good.” She nods, but her voice lacks conviction.
“Good,” I echo, though it feels like anything but.
The silence stretches out, filled with unspoken thoughts and unsatisfied yearnings. I need space to think without the distraction of her nearness.
I exhale a full breath. “See you around, Mrs. Wolfe.”
“Okay.” She half-smiles, but it’s strained. “Bye.”
With a last look at her and the mess we’ve created, I turn and walk out of the suite. The door clicks shut behind me, sealing us off from each other.