3. What Happens in Vegas. Definitely Doesnt Stay There
3
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS... DEFINITELY DOESN'T STAY THERE
ARIANA
The thing about Vegas hangovers is that they come with bonus features.
Regular hangovers just give you headaches and regret. Vegas hangovers come with a complimentary mariachi band playing the 1812 Overture inside your skull, while your mouth tastes like something died in it, and your dress is... wait .
Why is my dress hiked up to my thighs?
Why do I feel so hot? Like, literally burning up?
The March sunrise creeping through the hotel windows is way too bright for this level of crisis, but I force my eyes open anyway.
The air is thick, stifling. Heat clings to my skin, beads of sweat gathering at my temple. My body feels weighed down, cocooned in something too warm, too solid.
Is the AC broken? Did I forget to drink water? Did I?—
A slow exhale stirs the tiny hairs on the back of my neck.
A warm exhale.
The room spins lazily, giving me glimpses of scattered clothing, empty tequila bottles, and what appears to be an Elvis-themed Just Married sash draped over a chair.
Oh god.
The breath at my neck shifts as the weight around my waist tightens. Something firm. Solid. Warm.
Not a blanket. Not a pillow.
An arm.
A muscular arm.
Wait.
The man behind me shifts, his body pressing closer, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric of my dress. His breath is steady, deep, as if still lost in sleep, but his grip tightens just slightly, fingers curling against my hip.
My stomach plummets.
Memories start trickling back like treacherous little time bombs.
Bar number one: Water and witty banter with a stranger.
Bar number two: Tequila and trauma bonding.
Bar number three: Something about his high school sweetheart and my cheating ex...
Bar number four: Oh no.
I try to slip out from under his arm, but he just pulls me closer, all sleep-warm skin and...
Oh.
OH.
He's naked.
Like, completely, thoroughly, not-a-stitch-of-clothing naked.
"Stop squirming," he mumbles against my hair. "Too early."
His voice vibrates through me, deep and gravelly with sleep, and something about it triggers another memory. Him singing "Can't Help Falling in Love" while I... while we...
"Oh my god." I bolt upright, immediately regretting every life choice that led to this moment as the room tilts dangerously .
"Jesus." He groans, rolling onto his back. "Volume."
"Don't move!" I slap a hand over my eyes. "You're naked!"
"What?" He sounds more awake now. "I'm not... oh. Yeah, I am."
"Why are you naked?"
"I always sleep naked." A pause. "Usually not with company though."
I peek through my fingers, then immediately regret it because holy hell, this man was clearly carved by whatever deity is in charge of torturing women who haven’t had good sex in years.
The dark blond hair with silver strands sprinkled throughout, the sharp jawline, the stormy gray-blue eyes framed by unfairly thick lashes. And the body—muscled in a way that says he either spends hours in the gym or was born to make women reconsider their life choices.
My life choices, specifically.
And god, has it been a long time.
Will—my ex-fiancé—hadn’t exactly been a five-alarm fire in the bedroom. More like a candle struggling against a breeze. Especially in the later years. But this man? My pulse trips just looking at him.
"Could you maybe..." I wave my free hand. "Cover up?"
"Right. Sorry." I hear rustling, then: "Okay, I'm decent. Well, covered at least. Decent might be a stretch given... wait, is that a marriage certificate?"
I drop my hand to find him sitting up, holding a piece of paper and wearing nothing but a sheet wrapped around his hips. His hair is deliciously messy, his lips a little swollen, and there’s a mark on his neck that looks suspiciously like...
"Did I give you a hickey?"
"What?" His hand flies to his neck. "You don't remember?"
"I remember the first two bars. After that it gets... Fuzzy. "
"Same." He frowns at the paper. "Though this seems pretty clear."
"What seems clear?"
"Well..." He clears his throat. "Apparently sometime around midnight, we decided getting married by Elvis was a good idea."
The room tilts again. "We what?"
"Got married. By Elvis. There's a photo."
I snatch the paper from him, and sure enough, there we are. I'm still in my club dress but someone's added a blue garter and an Elvis cape. He's missing his suit jacket and his shirt is half-unbuttoned, but he's grinning like he just won the lottery.
We both look absolutely wasted.
"Oh god." I press a hand to my mouth. "Did we..."
"Have sex?" He looks around at the scattered clothes. "Don't think so. You have your underwear still on?”
“I—Yes. Why would you even ask?”
“Because. I doubt we’d have sex, and then get really enthusiastic about putting your, uh…undergarments back on afterward."
"Not funny." I try to stand, but my dress is tangled around my legs and I end up stumbling. He catches me, one strong arm around my waist, and suddenly we're chest to chest, his skin warm through the thin fabric of my dress.
"Careful, sunshine." His storm-cloud eyes crinkle at the corners. "This is quickly becoming a habit."
"What is?"
"You falling into my arms."
I push away from him, my cheeks burning. "This isn't happening."
"Pretty sure it already happened." He holds up his left hand, where a poker chip has been turned into a makeshift ring. “I’ve done a lot of things in my lifetime. This is a new one for me. Even for Vegas."
I look down at my own hand. Sure enough, there's a matching chip-ring, this one with "High Roller" written in gold script.
"At least we went high-end with our terrible decisions," he offers.
"Not helping." I start pacing, then remember his state of undress and slap my hand back over my eyes. "This is... this is..."
"A disaster?"
"Yes!"
"A crisis?"
"Absolutely!"
"The kind of thing a PR executive might be uniquely qualified to handle?"
I stop pacing. "Are you... are you making jokes right now?"
"Well," I hear him stand, the sheet rustling, "considering we're apparently married and you still don't know my name..."
"Oh god." I drop my hand again, forgetting about his nakedness in my horror. "I married a stranger. I'm having a panic attack in a strange hotel room with my naked husband who's a stranger."
"Connor."
"What?"
"My name." He steps closer, and I definitely don't notice the way his abs flex as he moves. "Connor Reeves. And you are?"
"Seriously questioning my life choices." But I extend my free hand. "Ariana Bristol."
He shakes it, his grip warm and sure. "Nice to meet you, wife."
"Oh god, stop."
"What? Too soon?"
"We need to fix this."
"Agreed." He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up in ways that shouldn't be distracting but are. "But first, I need pants. And you need..."
A knock at the door cuts him off .
"Housekeeping!"
"No!" we both shout.
But it's too late. The door swings open to reveal not housekeeping, but a man in an expensive suit whose expression shifts from annoyance to pure delight.
"Connor?" He leans against the doorframe. "Please tell me that wedding picture you sent me last night wasn’t real."
Connor groans. "Alex..."
"Because it looks an awful lot like my Best Man just married..." The man – Alex – peers at me. "Wait. Aren't you Will fiancée?"
The room goes very, very still.
"Will's... you know Will?" My voice sounds far away.
"Will Drake?" Alex's grin gets wider. "My cousin? The one whose bachelor party just got dramatically canceled? That Will?"
Dammit. I should have recognized him sooner.
This is Alexander Drake. Billionaire CEO. Seattle golden boy.
And the family member whose wedding I was supposed to attend with Will later this spring. That is, before my engagement blew up.
"Fuck me," I whisper.
"Pretty sure Connor already did," Alex mumbles under his breath.
Connor throws a pillow at his head, which Alex catches.
"This isn't..." I start, then stop because what isn't it? A disaster? A cosmic joke? The kind of coincidence that makes me wonder if the universe is actually just a really dedicated screenwriter with a terrible sense of humor?
"We need coffee," Connor announces. "And lawyers. Definitely lawyers."
"What you need," Alex says, tossing aside the pillow Connor threw, "is a really good explanation for why I feel like I’m in the middle of a really bad Jerry Springer episode.”
Connor hums. “In our defense, are there any actually ‘good’ Jerry Springer episodes? Just saying…”
Silence settles in the room. Until another knock makes us all jump.
"Special delivery for the happy couple!"
Before any of us can move, a man in a gold lamé suit pushes past Alex, wheeling in a cart loaded with...
"Are those his and hers Elvis robes?" I ask faintly.
"Complete with your commemorative wedding photo album!" Gold Lamé confirms cheerfully. "You two were one of my favorite ceremonies last night. The way you changed the lyrics of 'Can't Help Falling in Love' to include a verse about PR crisis management? Inspired!"
I look at Connor. He looks at me. We both look at Alex, who's now watching our horror unfold with the kind of joy usually reserved for children on Christmas morning.
"So," Gold Lamé continues, oblivious, "when would you like to schedule your follow-up interview? The reality show producers are very interested in your story. The PR executive who caught her fiancé cheating, only to marry his cousin's Best Man? It's ratings gold!"
"Reality show?" I repeat weakly.
Alex shakes his head. “Like I said. Jerry Springer.”
My phone chooses that moment to explode with notifications.
Lily and Kat. Asking where I am. Demanding it, really.
“No one touch anything. Say anything. Post anything.” I point a finger at the small crowd of men around me, grabbing one of the Elvis robes. “This…” I motion, “never leaves this room. Understood?”
Wide-eyed, the men all nod, murmuring low .
“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need five minutes to puke out my guts.”
"Take ten," Connor calls after me. "I need to murder my friend anyway."
I slam the bathroom door, sliding down it to sit on the floor. Through the wood, I hear Alex's voice:
"Good luck with that, Romeo. But first... maybe explain how exactly you ended up married to my cousin's ex while I was supposedly keeping you out of trouble?"
I press my forehead to my knees, trying to breathe through the panic.
My phone buzzes again. And again. And...
I turn it off, wondering if it's possible to die from embarrassment or if I'll have to settle for just never leaving this bathroom again.
A soft knock makes me jump.
"Hey." Connor's voice is gentle through the door. “They’re gone. Gold suit. Alex. Both of them. And I found pants. And coffee. Though I think we might need something stronger."
I look down at my glitter-covered dress, then at the Elvis robe in my hands. At the poker chip ring that somehow feels both ridiculous and right on my finger.
"Ariana?"
"Yeah?"
"I know this is... a lot. But maybe we could freak out together? Over breakfast? I make really good panic attack pancakes."
I glare at the door. “Panic attack pancakes?"
"Special recipe. Lots of chocolate chips. Zero judgment about accidental Vegas marriages."
I stand, catching sight of myself in the mirror. My makeup's smeared, my hair's a disaster, and I'm pretty sure there's a hickey peeking out from under my dress strap.
How much worse can things get ?
"Okay," I call back. "But I'm wearing the Elvis robe."
His laugh is warm even through the door. "Deal. I'll take the matching one. We can be tacky together."
And really, what's one more terrible decision between accidentally married strangers?