Chapter 5
five
. . .
Jess
Cold. Hard. Wet?
My eyes flutter open—and then immediately slam shut against the painful assault of sunlight.
My mouth tastes like something died in it, and my head feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise.
When I finally force my eyelids apart, I’m greeted by the curved white porcelain of a bathtub.
A very nice bathtub in what appears to be a very nice bathroom.
And I’m lying in it. In only my bra and panties.
“What the hell?” I croak, my voice raw, like I’ve been shouting. Or singing. Oh, God, was I singing?
I sit up too quickly and wince as pain ricochets through my skull. Something tickles my forehead, and I reach up to find a wedding veil tangled in my hair, the comb digging into my scalp.
My stomach lurches as fragments of the previous night flash through my mind. Champagne, lots of champagne. Shots. Lucas’s arm around me. Madeline’s face. More champagne. A crowd cheering.
I pull myself to standing, the bathroom spinning slightly, and step gingerly out of the tub.
My clothes are scattered across the marble floor.
My black pants are draped over the towel rack.
One heel is on the counter, but the other is nowhere in sight.
An empty champagne bottle sits on its side next to a—is that a garter?
I haven’t had a hangover like this since college.
After wrapping myself in a plush hotel robe hanging on the door, I venture out of the bathroom.
I’m in a massive suite with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Vegas strip.
The place is scattered with evidence of a celebration: another empty bottle, a half-eaten strawberry, rose petals creating a trail to the bed.
As I follow them, dread builds with each step.
When I turn the corner, I find him: Lucas Carmichael, media spin master and eternal pain in my ass, sprawled face down on the king-sized bed.
The sheets cover exactly none of him, giving me an unobstructed view of his perfectly toned backside.
The baseball-player physique hasn’t faded since college.
For a brief, clearly hangover-induced moment of insanity, I just stare. Not that I’m keeping score, but apparently, the man does squats. Jesus.
Then reality hits.
“WHAT. THE. FUCK.”
Lucas twists and bolts upright, disoriented, his hair sticking out in every direction. He blinks at me, then down at himself, then back at me. Recognition dawns in his eyes, followed immediately by horror.
“Jesus Christ!” He grabs a pillow, covering himself, but not before I get a complete view of everything he has to offer. And it’s…impressive. Not that I care. “Why am I in your room?”
“This isn’t my room!” I gesture wildly, and the movement sets off another wave of nausea. “I woke up in the bathtub! In my underwear! With this!” I point to the veil still hanging from my hair.
“Why are you…” he starts to say, but then he notices something on his left hand. He raises it slowly, staring at the simple gold band on his ring finger. “No. No, no, no.”
I look down at my own hand. An identical band gleams back at me.
“This isn’t happening,” I whisper. “We didn’t—”
“We couldn’t have—”
We stare at each other, with panic mirrored in our faces. Lucas wraps the sheet around his waist and stands, scanning the room as if searching for an explanation.
“Wait. Whose suite is this?” he asks, moving toward the window. “This isn’t my room. I was on the twelfth floor.”
“I was on fourteen,” I say, following him out to the living area, keeping a healthy distance.
As if on cue, we both spot the massive gift basket on the coffee table. A banner across it reads, “CONGRATULATIONS, MR. & MRS. CARMICHAEL.”
“Mrs. Carmichael?” I echo, my voice rising to a pitch that makes my own head throb. “Oh, my God. I’m going to be sick.”
“There!” Lucas points to a piece of paper on the bar. He crosses the room, careful to keep the sheet secured around him, and grabs it. “It’s a marriage certificate.”
“Let me see that.” I snatch the document from him. “This can’t be legal. We were completely wasted.”
But there it is in black and white. My signature, wobbly but unmistakable. Lucas’s, equally messy. Two witness signatures: Marcus Delgado and…
“Dylan Reeves?” I blink at the name. “Why does that sound familiar?”
“Documentary filmmaker,” Lucas says, rubbing his temples. “Award-winning indie darling who, I think, just got a major deal with Wonderland Studios. I’m pretty sure he was at the bar last night.”
“Why would he be a witness at our wedding?” I sink onto a bar stool, with the marriage certificate still in hand. “What else don’t we remember?”
We’re interrupted by the simultaneous buzzing of our phones, which are, miraculously, plugged in and charging on the counter. Lucas reaches his first and swipes it open. Then he freezes.
“Oh, shit.”
“What?”
He turns the screen to me. It’s open to Instagram, displaying a post from Dylan.
The image shows Lucas and me at what is clearly a Vegas wedding chapel.
I’m in my black suit from the conference, with a veil on my head and a bouquet in hand.
Lucas is in his uniform blazer and jeans, and those fucking tennis shoes he loves so much, grinning like he’s just won the lottery.
We’re gazing at each other with expressions that could only be described as besotted.
The caption reads:
Honored to witness true love unfold last night!
Thrilled to announce that industry power duo @LucasCarmichael and @JessLexington will be the first newlywed couple featured in my upcoming Real Power documentary series!
Their chemistry is undeniable. I can’t wait to share their journey from rivals to partners! #RealPower #VegasWedding #ComingSoon
“What the actual…” I grab my own phone. Notifications flood the screen. I’ve got messages from family, friends, and colleagues, alerts from news outlets, and endless social media tags.
“We’ve gone viral,” Lucas says, scrolling through his feed. “Everyone thinks we’re—oh, God, my father is going to have a stroke.”
“His documentary series?” I stare at Dylan’s post again. “We agreed to be in his documentary?” It would be funny if it weren’t my actual life imploding in real time.
Lucas paces, trailing the sheet behind him like a toga. “We need to fix this. Now.”
“Agreed. We call our lawyers, get this annulled, issue statements explaining it was a drunken mistake—”
“Wait,” Lucas interrupts, holding up a message. “Dylan says, ‘The chemistry between you two last night was electric. I couldn’t believe you’ve been secretly dating for six months. The viewers are going to love your story.’” He looks up at me. “Did we tell people we’ve been dating for six months?”
A memory surfaces. Lucas’s arm around me, telling everyone about our “anniversary.” Me, playing along, one-upping him with increasingly elaborate stories.
“I think we might have,” I admit, “but how did Dylan get involved?” Another memory clicks into place. A photographer from the NAB Show. “The woman. With the camera. Was she working with Dylan?”
“I don’t remember.”
As we stare at each other, the gravity of the situation sinks in.
Lucas drops onto the couch, his head in his hands.
I bend to grab his button-down from the floor, and the hem of my robe flutters open. The cool morning air hits my skin, and when I glance down, I catch a glimpse of lace peeking through the gap.
When I straighten, I realize that Lucas isn’t hiding in his hands anymore.
He’s watching me.
His eyes trail from the gap in my robe down the length of my legs, pausing at my toes before climbing slowly back up to meet mine. There’s a beat of silence, and his eyes flash with a glimpse of desire.
My stomach flips.
“Lucas,” I say slowly, with dawning horror, “did we…you know…” I gesture at us and the bedroom.
“I don’t think so? I mean, I was naked, but you were in the tub, and—”
“I think I would remember.” I pull the robe tighter around myself. “I mean, I remember some things. The kissing. Your hands.” I stop. Heat that has nothing to do with my hangover rises to my face. I know I would remember, and I see no evidence that indicates we did.
“Right.” He clears his throat. “So, no sex. Just marriage. To each other.”
“And a documentary we agreed to be in.”
“I’ll call my attorney when we get back to LA,” he says. “Get this sorted out.”
“Me, too.”
An uncomfortable silence falls between us, broken only by the persistent buzzing of our phones.
I look at him, really look at him: his messy hair, the stubble on his jaw, that familiar crease between his eyebrows that appears when he’s stressed.
For eight years, I’ve seen him as the opposition, the slick PR guy spinning stories to protect his clients from people like me. Now he’s my husband.
“Lucas?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to need you to put on some pants before we figure out our next move.”
For the first time since waking up, a hint of a smile crosses his face. “That’s probably a good idea.”