Chapter 2
TALIA
I Do
Coming to Vegas was an act of rebellion—a quiet, desperate escape from the empty house I share with my dad. Alone.
I needed to get away. I needed to have fun.
So I packed a suitcase full of the shortest dresses I own, booked a flight, and decided that for seventy-two hours, I would do exactly that.
The yellow dress was the first step. It’s loud, it’s short, and it makes me look like a damn firecracker.
I was weaving through the VIP corridors, feeling the buzz of the tequila humming in my veins, when I slammed into a literal wall of a man.
He was built like a tank, smelling of expensive woodsmoke and high-end scotch.
My first thought wasn't oops; it was wow.
He looked like he’d been carved out of granite by a sculptor who had a thing for grumpy expressions and perfect jawlines.
Pulling him out into the night was like pulling a stubborn grizzly bear out of its cave.
But it turns out that once he got over his whole “you spilled a drink on me” attitude, he was surprisingly fun to be around.
He was fun to tease. I liked the way his lips curved slightly to one side when he looked at me, like he was amused but trying very hard to stay grumpy and hide it.
And, most importantly, he was sexy as hell.
After a few too many shots, we were completely drunk, laughing at absolutely everything.
Yes. This was exactly the kind of fun I’d been talking about.
Wasn’t it hysterical that this stoic, responsible grump was the one who suggested getting married at L’Amour & Luck?
At the time, I thought it was the funniest thing I’d ever heard.
And now we’re standing here, and I hear my fiancé repeating the officiant’s words like we’re inside some glittery fever dream.
“I, Jake, take you, Talia…”
His voice is so deep, a shiver runs down my spine.
He’s holding both of my hands in both of his now, like he’s afraid I might tip over. Which is fair. I might.
“To be my lawfully wedded wife,” Gary prompts.
Jake doesn’t look away from me when he repeats it.
“To be my lawfully wedded wife.”
Wife.
The word hits me somewhere low in my stomach.
I almost start laughing again. Almost.
Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek because suddenly this feels… different.
The chapel is tiny. The fake stained glass glows pink and blue. The instrumental Elvis song crackles softly through a cheap speaker.
Jake squeezes my hands.
“To have and to hold,” he continues.
His thumb brushes over my knuckles like it’s unconscious.
“To have and to hold,” he echoes, then adds quietly, “and to upgrade the ring as soon as humanly possible.”
I choke on a laugh.
Gary clears his throat. “In sickness and in health.”
“In sickness and in health,” he repeats, still looking at me like I’m the only person in the room.
Which is wild.
Because we are absolutely hammered.
There’s laughter dancing at the corners of his mouth.
But there’s something else there too.
Something warm.
Something reckless.
Something that says he is fully committed to this nonsense.
“And now the bride,” Gary says.
Bride.
Oh my God.
Jake turns to me, clearly expecting me to dissolve into giggles.
And honestly? I want to.
But I don’t.
Because suddenly this feels hilariously, terrifyingly real.
“I, Talia, take you, Jake…”
His name feels strange and intimate and slightly slurred on my tongue.
“To be my lawfully wedded husband.”
He makes a tiny sound under his breath.
“To have and to hold,” I continue, “in sickness and in health.”
“It is time for the rings,” Gary announces, holding out the box for Jake to take out the ring for me.
Jake slides the ring onto my finger and it fits surprisingly well.
“There,” he murmurs, blinking at it like he’s impressed with himself. “Official.”
Official.
My chest does something weird and fluttery.
I pick up his ring.
It’s slightly bigger, and the glittery rhinestones look even more ridiculous in his size.
“Your turn,” I say.
He offers me his left hand with exaggerated gallantry, bowing slightly like a medieval knight who definitely had too much mead.
“Hold still,” I warn.
“I am incredibly still,” he replies, swaying.
“You are absolutely not.”
I slide the ring onto his finger.
It goes down easily at first.
Then it sticks halfway.
We both stare at it.
The ring glints under the chapel lights like it’s openly mocking us.
“…Huh,” he says.
“It’s not budging.”
“I can see that,” Jake mutters, attempting to shove it down himself. “Come on, you little devil.”
He squints at it like intimidation might work.
“Okay. Nothing to it but brute force. Go for it, Talia.”
“Are you sure?”
“Commitment requires sacrifice.”
And because we are both deeply intoxicated and incapable of making measured decisions, I push.
“Motherf—” Jake bites out, cutting himself off as I push harder.
“Stop flexing!”
“I’m not.”
I twist slightly.
He yelps.
Gary sighs like he’s seen worse.
And then suddenly—
The ring slides the rest of the way down.
We both exhale.
Jake lifts his hand, admiring the explosion of sparkles catching the light.
“Who knew a ring could be such an annoying little bugger?” he mutters.
“And now,” Gary says, clearly eager to wrap this up as he lifts his hands in something resembling a blessing, “by the power vested in me by the state of Nevada, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Husband.
Wife.
“You may kiss the bride.”
Jake doesn’t hesitate.
It’s like he’s been waiting for permission.
He pulls me in, his hand sliding around my waist with a possessive heat that draws me flush against him. The movement is confident, instinctive, like his body already knows where I belong.
His other hand cups my jaw.
His thumb drags slowly along my lower lip, just once, just enough to make my breath hitch before he leans down.
And then he kisses me.
Our first kiss as husband and wife.
Our first kiss, period.
There’s nothing tentative about it.
His mouth claims mine in a way that makes my knees soften instantly. It’s deep and slow at first, like he’s tasting the moment, like he wants to remember it. Then it shifts—warmer, hungrier, more certain.
My hands slide up his chest, feeling the hard planes beneath his shirt. He’s solid. Steady. Heat radiates off him, wrapping around me.
I kiss him back just as fiercely.
He makes a low sound against my mouth—something between approval and need—and it shoots straight through me.
Oh.
Oh, this man knows exactly what he’s doing.
His grip on my waist tightens, fingers pressing into my back as he pulls me closer, until there isn’t an inch of space left between us. I can feel the full strength of him, the solid lines of muscle, the controlled power beneath the fabric of his shirt.
The air in the chapel feels ten degrees hotter.
My pulse is everywhere.
He deepens the kiss, tilting his head, taking his time. His stubble grazes my skin, rough in the best way. My fingers curl into his shirt as if I need something to anchor me.
He kisses like he means it—focused, deliberate, intense.
There’s something almost reverent in the way his thumb brushes along my jaw as he holds me there.
He’s a mountain.
And I’m a landslide.
And I never want to stop falling.
"Alright, alright," Gary says, tapping his podium. "Break it up. I’ve got a 3:00 AM 'Goth Wedding' waiting in the wings."
Jake pulls back slowly, his eyes dark and blown out, his breathing as ragged as mine.
We stumble back to the desk to sign the final papers, barely paying attention because we’re both thinking the same thing.
We need to get out of here.
Preferably somewhere with a door.
And a lock.
In fact, where is the nearest hotel room?
Once we’re outside, Jake grabs me under my thighs and lifts me like I weigh nothing.
I squeal, half laughing, half breathless, and instinct kicks in as I wrap my legs around his waist. My dress rides up slightly, and I feel the solid strength of him everywhere.
His hands tighten on me.
Then his mouth is on mine again.
The kiss is wet and intoxicating, his stubble scraping deliciously against my skin. My fingers tangle in his hair as he kisses me harder.
“God,” he mutters against my mouth, his eyes flashing when he pulls back just enough to look at me.
Without another word, he gently sets me down.
There’s a very obvious bulge in his pants.
I try not to stare.
I fail.
My eyes drop.
And stay there.
Heat floods my cheeks, but I can’t look away.
He notices.
Of course he does.
His jaw tightens slightly, and something dark flashes across his face.
Instead of teasing me, instead of making a joke, he simply takes my hand.
Firm.
Decisive.
And starts walking.
There’s purpose in his stride now.
Not rushed.
Not frantic.
Just certain.
Like he already knows exactly what he’s going to do to me once we’re behind closed doors.
The way he holds my hand makes my knees weak.
The way he doesn’t look back makes my pulse spike.
And the way he keeps brushing his thumb over my knuckles like he’s barely holding himself together?
That might be the sexiest thing of all.
The cool night air brushes across my skin and I feel my head beginning to clear, the soft haze of alcohol slowly fading. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a quiet voice whispers that I just did something completely insane. Married a stranger in Vegas.
But I push the thought away before it can fully form.
Some things are better not examined too closely.
I hurry to keep up, my new ring catching the neon lights as we move through the night.
“My suite,” he grunts, his pace quickening. “It’s at the Wynn.”
Suite? Wynn?
I blink at him, trying to keep up.
Man.
My husband must be loaded.