Chapter 4
RILEY
My head is literally trying to kill me. I carefully try to open my eyes, already feeling the sunshine through the hotel window.
There’s a relentless throbbing behind my eyes that makes me want to burrow under the covers and never emerge. My mouth tastes like fuzzy tequila, and when I finally open my eyes, the bright sunlight streaming through the windows feels like a personal insult.
I close my eyes and turn away from the window, trying to piece together the night.
The concert—Bella’s voice soaring through the venue, Duke’s shoulder warm against mine.
Getting to meet Bella! The bars after. His laugh in my ear as we stumbled down the Strip, my heels dangling from his fingers because my feet had given out.
The last thing I remember is drinking tequila at a dive bar and slow dancing with Duke.
After that, nothing.
How much did we drink last night? Did I pack any aspirin?
I crack one eye open, squinting against the brutal sun. The ceiling is unfamiliar. Where the hell am I? This isn’t my hotel room. The sheets beneath me are impossibly soft, the thread count probably higher than my credit score.
I turn my head slowly, and my breath catches.
Duke is sleeping beside me. One muscled arm flung over his face, his dog tags resting on his shirtless chest as it rises and falls as he sleeps. The sheets are pushed down to his hips, and I can see the hard planes of his stomach, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the fabric.
I’ve seen Duke shirtless before. But this is different.
I’m suddenly very aware that I’m only wearing my bra and underwear. That we’re in a bed together. That something happened last night, but frustratingly, I can’t remember.
I haven’t been that drunk in I don’t know how long—possibly since college. I rub my hand over my face, wondering just how much we had to drink last night, and then freeze when I feel a ring on my finger.
My stomach drops through the floor. We had a pact in high school that we’d get married if we never found anyone else, but it always seemed like a joke.
Neither of us has mentioned it in more than ten years.
I certainly never thought we’d go through with it, even if I’ve sometimes wondered if Duke and I would even work as a couple.
“Duke.” My voice comes out as a croak. I clear my throat and try again. “Duke.”
Nothing. He doesn’t even twitch.
I sit up way too fast, and the room tilts violently. I grab his shoulder to steady myself and shake him.
“Duke. Duke. Wake up.”
He groans. “Why are you yelling?”
“Look!” I exclaim, holding up my ring finger, the sunlight bouncing off it.
His arm drops from his face. His eyes fly open, and he stares at the ring on my finger, then lifts his eyes to my face and stares at me.
Then, slowly, he looks at his own left hand.
A matching band glints in the sunlight.
“Holy shit,” he breathes.
I’m already lunging across him, reaching for the nightstand where a piece of paper sits on top of a heart-shaped box of chocolates, next to an empty champagne bottle I don’t remember drinking. My chest brushes his arm as I grab it, and even through my panic, my skin prickles at the contact.
Marriage certificate. State of Nevada. Our signatures at the bottom—mine loopy like it is when I’m drunk, his barely legible. A heart drawn next to my name in what is definitely my handwriting.
Official. Legal. Real.
“How did this happen?” The words come out strangled.
Duke sits up and pulls the top sheet up over his waist.
He runs a hand over his face and through his hair. He looks as wrecked as I feel—shadows under his eyes, jaw rough with stubble, expression caught in a state of shock.
“I don’t—” He shakes his head. “I don’t remember.”
I stare at the certificate. At our names printed side by side. Duke Coleman and Riley Walsh. Husband and wife.
I just got out of a relationship. I swore off men.
And now I’m married. To my best friend. In Vegas. This is like waking up in a romcom movie, only this doesn’t seem funny right now. Yet at the same time, a tiny voice in my head is saying, “Well it’s about damn time!”
Ignoring the voice, I hug a pillow against my body. “This is fixable. We can get an annulment. We can pretend that it never happened. It was a drunken Valentine’s Day mistake,” I say, chattering a mile a minute.
Duke is quiet. When I look at him, his jaw is tight, and he’s just staring at me.
“Right,” he says. “Of course.”
The tightness in his voice catches me off guard, but I can’t bring myself to ask what he’s thinking. Because if I start thinking, if I acknowledge the tiny voice that says maybe this isn’t a mistake, and that I don’t hate seeing that ring on his finger, I’m going to lose my mind completely.
An hour later, we’ve relocated to the sitting area of what we’ve now realized is a honeymoon suite.
Because, of course, it is. I have no idea how we got this suite, but I’m definitely not hating it.
The room is obscenely luxurious—white marble floors, a California king bed that probably costs more than my car, a mirrored closet next to the bed, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the entire Strip. There’s a hot tub on the balcony. A hot tub.
While I showered, Duke ordered room service. Eggs, bacon, toast, coffee. It sits untouched on the glass coffee table. My stomach lurches at the sight of it.
“Found something.” Duke’s voice is tight.
He’s sitting on the plush couch across from me, phone in hand. I move to sit beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch, and he tilts the screen so I can see.
His camera roll. A video thumbnail. The timestamp reads 2:47 AM.
My pulse thuds in my ears. Whatever happened last night, whatever we did…is on his phone. I don’t know if it’s better to know or not know what happened.
“Ready?” he asks.
I’m not, but I nod anyway.
He hits play with unsteady hands.
On screen: a wedding chapel that has Christmas lights strung along fake wood beams. Silk flowers in garish pinks and purples. And there, at the altar, an Elvis impersonator in a white sequined jumpsuit, complete with pompadour and oversized sunglasses.
“Oh my god,” I whisper.
But that’s not what makes my throat close up.
It’s us.
Drunk Riley is wearing a white sundress I don’t own and don’t remember buying, and she’s glowing. Her hair is messy, her makeup smudged, but she looks happier than I’ve felt in months. Maybe years. She’s looking at Drunk Duke like he’s her favorite person in the world.
Drunk Duke has his arm around her waist. He’s looking at Drunk Riley like she’s the love of his life.
Drunk Us is laughing, leaning into each other with the easy intimacy of people who’ve known each other forever.
“We look so happy,” I say, looking away to hide how badly I’m blushing. That kiss was capital-H hot.
Duke doesn’t answer.
On screen, the ceremony continues. Elvis gestures grandly. Drunk Duke reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring—where did he even get a ring?—and takes Riley’s hand.
Duke’s fingers are shaking as he holds his phone, and we watch the video.
Drunk Duke slides the band onto Drunk Riley’s finger, and the look on his face takes my breath away. He’s looking at Drunk Riley—me—like he’s just won the biggest lottery in the world. Like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.
Elvis drawls, “By the power vested in me by the great state of Nevada, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”
I watch Drunk Duke kiss Drunk Riley with a passion and intensity that makes me squirm against the sudden heat that floods my core.
A knock at the door makes us both jump.
Duke pauses the video, frozen on an image of Drunk Me gazing up at him with tears in my eyes. He crosses to the door while I try to remember how to breathe.
“Congratulations again on your wedding!” A young woman in a hotel uniform stands in the hallway, beaming, a bottle of champagne clutched in her hands.
“As you can see, we’ve upgraded you to the honeymoon suite, compliments of the hotel.
You two were quite something when you got in this morning—everyone was talking about it!
Is there anything else we can do to make your stay special? ”
Duke stands frozen in the doorway. I can see the war playing out across his face—correct her, explain the situation, admit this whole thing is a drunken mistake that we’re going to undo as soon as possible.
The silence stretches a beat too long.
“We’re fine,” I hear myself say. “Thank you.”
The woman’s smile widens. She sets the champagne on the entry table and practically floats away.
Duke closes the door slowly. Turns to face me.
“So.” His voice is carefully neutral. “Honeymoon suite.”
I look around the room. The champagne. The ridiculous luxury. The wedding video still paused on his phone, Drunk Me frozen in a moment of pure joy.
And then, impossibly, I start to laugh.
It bubbles up from somewhere deep—slightly hysterical, edged with panic, but real.
The absurdity of it all crashes over me.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was crying into ice cream on my couch, convinced I’d never be happy again.
Now I’m sitting in a Vegas honeymoon suite, wearing a wedding ring, having gotten married to my best friend…
on Valentine’s Day. My best friend, who drove across the country, then dragged me on a flight to Vegas to see my favorite musician perform, and arranged for me to meet her.
Duke stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have.
Then his mouth twitches. The corner lifts. And suddenly he’s laughing too, slumping back against the door, one hand pressed to his face.
“This is insane,” I manage between gasps. “We always said if we weren’t married by thirty…”
“Completely insane. And we’re past thirty…”
“We got married by Elvis. On Valentine’s Day!”
“We have a hot tub.”
The laughter fades slowly. Duke is watching me across the room, his expression softer now, that almost-smile still playing at his lips.
“Maybe we should just... enjoy today?” The words surprise me as much as they seem to surprise him. “I mean—we’re here. We can figure out the rest tomorrow.”
Duke considers this, and I can’t quite read his expression. Hope? Fear? Some complicated mixture of both? I’m probably overthinking it.
“Yeah,” he says finally. His voice is rough. “Okay. Today, we enjoy it.”
I tell myself it’s practicality. We’re in Vegas. We have this beautiful suite. Why not make the most of it before we have to face reality?
But underneath the logic, a dangerous little thrill at the word “honeymoon” buzzes through me.
I twirl the ring on my finger and remember the way that the way Duke looked at me in that video—like I was the love of his life.
Could that actually be real?
I push the feeling down. We’ll get the annulment. We’ll go back to being friends. Everything will be fine. It has to be.
Right?