Chapter Three
“Ugh!” I grumbled as harsh yellow morning light spilled across my face.
It may as well have peeled back my eyelids and stabbed me right in the pupils.
Tequila.
This was tequila’s doing.
A pathetic whimper escaped me as I threw my arm over my face, pressing hard against the headache that hammered through my skull like a freaking middle school marching band—all out of rhythm.
God, how many margaritas had I had?
I wasn’t a heavy drinker by any means, but I had my fun here and there. And I didn’t remember the last time I had a brain-boiling hangover.
High school, maybe.
I turned over, trying to put my back to the windows, but the light seemed to completely surround me.
That made no sense.
I hadn’t sprung for a suite, just a basic room with a view of the strip. Which meant windows only on one side.
Had I upgraded without remembering?
Was I dreaming still?
My brain wasn’t working right.
The bedding pulled tight, rubbing against bare skin.
Was I naked?
How did I not remember getting naked?
Though it didn’t surprise me. Tequila made me hot, made my clothes feel too tight, too scratchy, too much.
If I’d only stripped naked in the privacy of my room, that was a win, I guess. I really didn’t need to be racking up public indecency charges in my favorite playground on earth.
I pulled my other arm out from under the blankets. My limbs felt heavy, like gravity had been dialed up.
In my mouth, my tongue felt thick and dry, the taste metallic.
My stomach felt unsettled, not quite sick (thank God), just vaguely offended.
Had I even eaten?
I had fuzzy memories of a light lunch.
Then… nothing.
Somewhere down on the street, a fire truck’s sirens screamed, making my shoulders lift up near my ears to try to muffle the sound even as my headache ratcheted up.
Another pathetic whimper escaped me as I curled into a tight ball and let myself wallow in my misery as time warped, stretching and constricting.
Minutes passed.
Or hours.
I had no idea.
I drifted in and out of sleep, only rousing enough to grumble about the light, about my headache, about the wrung-out feeling inside.
Until… something.
I couldn’t tell you what it was, only that it finally snapped me awake, eyes reluctantly opening to look at the bed.
There was an immediate feeling of, well, wrongness.
The nightstand looked wrong.
And there were floor-to-ceiling windows where there shouldn’t be, the late morning sun streaming in.
My brows pinched as I turned my head, taking in more windows. Three walls of them. I was surrounded, except for the wall where the giant bed was situated.
The bed was wrong too.
A little too long, too wide.
Too… unfamiliar.
My heart lurched.
I shot up in bed.
Way, way too fast.
The room tilted, spun, took me along for the ride.
“Ugh,” I whimpered, pressing my palms into my eyes, willing my stomach to settle back down.
It was right then that I felt something strange, something cold pressed against my eyebrow.
Something on my finger.
The fourth finger on my left hand.
Dread swirled as I lowered my arms, the movements in slow motion. Some part of me didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see, didn’t want to confirm the suspicion breaking through the hangover fog swirling in my mind.
I sucked in a breath and looked down at my hand.
Yep.
There they were.
A simple platinum band.
And an absolutely massive emerald-cut diamond on a simple band.
Gorgeous.
Absolutely horrifying.
“Oh, no, no, no,” I whimpered, falling back against the cushions.
I wanted to deny it.
But the proof was right there on my hand.
There was a hollow, tender sensation in my chest as I pressed my fists to my eyes, willing the stupid, useless tears to go away.
“Good morning,” a voice said, making panic surge through my system. Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he had to tack on, “wife.”
The pained animal sound that escaped me sounded strange and unfamiliar even as I shot upright again, momentarily too shocked to notice the covers pooled around my waist, exposing me from the waist up.
“Harrison?” I hissed as my gaze landed on him.
And, damn him, he looked good.
He’d clearly just gotten out of the shower, his hair still wet, and dressed in a crisp gray suit.
If it was possible, he was even better looking in the morning than he’d been the night before.
Though, to be fair, most of my memories of him had been in the dark.
Memories fought to the surface, making heat flood my system as I remembered his hands, lips, tongue, teeth, the feel of him pressing me into the mattress, the slide of him deep inside me.
His gaze dipped, making mine do the same, looking at my bare chest. I snatched up the covers, holding them under my neck.
“I was too drunk,” I snapped, outrage boiling in my gut.
Harrison’s hands moved up, palms out.
“You stripped yourself naked,” he explained, voice calm. “It started in the elevator. You grumbled something about not wanting to wear a dress made of cactus needles. I managed to keep you mostly decent until we got in the room.”
Okay.
That did kind of sound like me.
“What about this?” I asked, holding up my left hand. “Shouldn’t I have been considered too drunk for this?”
He had nothing to say to that, just offered me a shrug.
“Here,” he said, walking across the suite toward a small kitchenette, then dipping into the bathroom before returning with a bottle of water and some aspirin. “You look like you’re in pain.”
“Because I chugged tequila,” I snapped, snatching the medicine and water out of his hands, knowing I wasn’t going to be able to think straight until my migraine eased.
“Where are my clothes?” I asked after chugging the bottle of water. “Where?” I asked when he didn’t answer.
“The laundry.”
“The… laundry,” I repeated.
“You spilled a fair amount of butter down yourself.”
“Butter?” I repeated.
“I think you ate both our body weights in lobster.”
Just the word had my stomach rolling, recoiling.
“Oh. Oh, no,” Harrison said, likely watching me go green.
There was no time for modesty.
I threw off the covers and made a mad dash to the bathroom, bare-assed naked.
But that lack of self-consciousness let me get there right on time.
There was a soft knock on the door after a long break in getting sick.
“Open that door and I’ll blind you with your own toothbrush,” I snapped.
I didn’t do sick well.
And I was feeling especially uncharitable toward the man who’d married me when I’d been too drunk to even know what was going on.
Married.
Just the word had me leaning over the toilet once again. Only my stomach was empty, leaving me dry heaving with another rush of stupid tears pouring down my cheeks.
Eventually, I peeled myself off the floor, washing my mouth out with the little mini mouthwash on the counter, then brushing my teeth ruthlessly with the spare toothbrush.
Feeling slightly more human after that, I turned my attention to the shower.
Ordinarily, I would have fawned over it.
The niche was large enough for a dozen people and set deep enough not to require doors. White marble with light veining stretched up the sides with white river stone on the floor.
There were six shower heads, including a rainfall one in the center.
But I wasn’t in the mood to luxuriate.
I just wanted to wash the night before away and get my mind right.
Then, maybe, just maybe, I could deal with the repercussions of the night before.
Twenty minutes later, I felt, well, less buttery, at least. Awake, but reluctantly so. Every muscle felt oddly tender and weak. Just toweling off felt like too much work.
I needed coffee.
Something to settle my stomach.
Electrolytes.
A divorce.
There was a soft knock at the door. A low growl was all I could manage in response.
A soft chuckle sounded from the other side that had my eyes narrowing even as my belly did a little twist.
“I have something for you to wear,” Harrison called.
I sighed, yanking the door open, grabbing the bags he had outstretched—one, a white Dior bag with a pretty spring floral design, the other a light pink Agent Provocateur with a little black bow—and immediately slammed the door.
I hated that I was impressed with how quickly he pulled the task off. Sure, a bunch of the hotels on the strip had designer boutiques available. And, yeah, he likely just called down to have the concierge run the errand for him.
Still, it showed forethought and thoughtfulness that caught me off guard.
I reached into the bag without a lot of hope. I’d never been a designer clothing kind of person. I often wasn’t fashionable enough to ‘get’ the styles and cuts.
So I was pleasantly surprised to pull out a pair of flared jeans that wouldn’t cling too much to my suddenly sensitive body.
And, damn him, they were the right size somehow, too.
I laid them on the sink counter and reached in to pull out… a simple t-shirt.
I didn’t even think Dior had plain tees. This one was as simple as they could come, too. Just white with a tiny little shamrock and their name under it.
Next, I went to the pink bag.
I’d seen the store more than a few times over the years. It was one of those upscale lingerie stores that some part of me did kind of drool over.
No, I wasn’t a fancy dresser.
But who didn’t like a pretty pair of panties?
I reached inside and found a whole bunch of different pairs of undies in black, red, white, and blue. All of them were lacy and sexy, just how I liked them.
He hadn’t gotten me a bra.
I couldn’t be mad about that. It took me years to find the right size. I couldn’t expect a man who’d only seen my tits once—ugh, twice—to be able to guess.
Besides, the last thing I wanted was to strap myself into a torture device when I already felt like crap.