© Lisa Suzanne 2024

 

 

Chapter 1: Spencer Nash

What the Fuck Happened Last Night?

 

As consciousness plows into me, I’m reminded why I don’t drink tequila anymore.

My entire body aches as I try to remember how the hell I even got here, and…nope.

The night is a complete and total blank.

The last thing I remember is tequila. An allergic reaction. Benadryl. Mixing tequila and Benadryl is never a good idea.

Never.

I try to remember the last time I got black-out drunk, and just as a vague, faded memory starts to spark in my foggy brain, a voice beside me startles the hell out of me.

Apparently, I’m not alone.

“Oh shit!” the voice says, and the woman darts out of bed and runs for the bathroom, slamming the door.

What the fuck?

Where am I right now?

I open my eyes slowly and glance around. I’m in a hotel room. My hotel room in Las Vegas. I’ve been staying at the Aria for the last few days.

Why am I here?

My three brothers and my father live here. I’m a frequent visitor. This time I came for my brother’s weeklong bachelor party, and apparently last night, the liquor was flowing.

And was that woman running to the bathroom…my ex-fiancée?

I’m honestly not entirely sure, but I don’t think it was. Amelia has blonde hair. It’s dark in here despite the light trying to get in on each side of the drawn drapes, but I don’t think that was blonde hair swirling around the woman who bolted.

And just as I think of Amelia, another realization plows into me.

As far as I know, Amelia’s not here in Vegas.

Her sister, however, is.

I freeze as I wonder if that was Gracie Newman running to the bathroom just now.

Oh shit. Did I hook up with my ex’s sister last night?

Is that Gracie Newman retching in the bathroom right now?

Should I go help her? Hold her hair back? Do…something?

Wait. Gracie was here to tell me about something. It was a warning. My memory is starting to come back, but the thunder clapping in my head isn’t helping me make much sense of anything.

I can’t make myself move with the way my head is pounding and my stomach is rolling.

I suck in a deep breath. Did I sleep with her last night?

Fuck. If I did, and I don’t remember it—

There’s no way the commander-in-briefs could’ve worked after a night of tequila that resulted in a morning of complete memory loss, but I suppose anything is possible where Grace is concerned.

I raise my hands to rub my face as I sit up against the headboard, and that’s when I feel it.

Something hard and metal against my cheek as I rub the haze from my face.

Oh no. Oh God, no.

I slowly pull my hands away from my face, and I practically jump out of bed as I stare at the new golden band encircling my left ring finger.

As my feet plant on the ground, they don’t hit the floor. They stop on top of some fabric. It feels…scratchy.

I slowly angle my head down as I spot the billowing layers of white silk and that weird netting shit that turns a regular dress into one of those puffy princess ballgowns.

Jesus Christ.

What the fuck happened last night?

I hear the toilet flush, and a moment later, the bathroom door opens.

I glance up, and my eyes meet those of Grace Newman. She looks even worse than I feel, and she freezes as she sees me standing in…

I glance down.

I’m standing in my birthday suit.

I’m as naked as the day I was born.

Seriously, and I cannot stress this enough: What the fuck happened last night?

I glance around, but no clothes that belong to me are within my reach, though she’s wearing one of my T-shirts. I take a step back and bend down to pick up the dress off the floor. I hold it up to cover my entire…area.

“Um,” she croaks. She clears her throat. “This may be a dumb question, but is that a wedding dress?” She gestures toward the garment I’m holding.

I glance down at the dress. “I, uh—” I clear my throat, too, since it also seems not to be working at the moment. “I think it is.” The words come out in a rush as my stomach churns.

“Oh, okay. That may explain the wedding ring on my finger, then,” she says. Her voice is a pitch higher than usual as she twists the ring.

“Um, I’m wearing one, too.” I shuffle on my feet and draw in a deep breath as I try to remain calm. This has to be a joke. Right?

“Yeah. Uh…this is kind of embarrassing to admit, but I can’t remember a thing from last night.” She shakes her head as if she’s trying to will it back, but it’s as blank for me as it appears to be for her. She rolls her shoulders a little. “Can you fill me in on what happened? Did we get married?”

I’m still standing with the dress in my hands, shifting back and forth on my feet as the need to pace takes over, but I’m not wearing any fucking clothes, and what the hell happened last night? Panic rises in my chest, but I’m trying to stay calm. For her. “I’ll be honest, Newman,” I say, calling her by her last name. “I have absolutely no idea.”

“Right,” she says, and she twists her lips. She looks like she might cry, and that’s just making that rising panic feel even worse as it combines with the hangover.

“Can you, uh…can you turn around for a second?” If we really did get married, it’s a dumb request, but last I checked, Grace Newman is nothing more than my friend…and the sister of my ex-fiancée. Or, the last time I was sober, that’s all she was, anyway.

“Sure.” She turns and puts her hands over her eyes even though it’s sort of redundant to turn around and cover her eyes.

I rush over to the drawer I set my clothes in when I got to this hotel, and I grab a pair of shorts that I pull on in a hurry. “Okay. I have shorts on.”

She turns back around, and her jaw slackens a little. She clears her throat again. “Maybe a shirt, too?”

I glance down, and when I look back up at her, I can’t help but ask, “A shirt?”

“Yeah. Those are making me…” She pauses, and she indicates my abdomen. “Uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable?” I repeat. “We’re both wearing wedding rings, and there’s a wedding dress on the floor, and my abs are making you uncomfortable?” My voice is rising as the panic starts to edge its way in.

She clears her throat. “Don’t forget the tuxedo on the bathroom floor.”

There’s a tuxedo on the bathroom floor?

Oh, Jesus.

I scratch the back of my neck and glance at the top of the dresser, where I see a piece of paper. “Oh, fuck,” I mutter as I scan the words on the top of the page. I pick up the paper and realize my hands are trembling.

State of Nevada Marriage Certificate.

Spencer Thomas Nash. Grace Marie Newman.

“What is it?” she asks, and she walks over toward me. I hand her the certificate, and she stares at it for a few beats before her eyes move up to mine. “Is this real?”

I toss my hands up. “I have no idea. It looks like it.”

“How did this happen? And why can’t either of us remember?” Her voice is louder on the second question.

None of this is helping the hangover. I rub my temples. I can’t seem to think straight with the thundering in my head. “I don’t know.”

She walks over to the bed, sits, and sucks in a few deep breaths. “Okay. Let’s go get some coffee, and then we can try to figure it out.”

Coffee? I don’t know if I can drink coffee at a time like this, but my head is aching for a cup to try to clear the fog of last night. I suck in another deep breath as I try to keep it together.

“Okay, wife,” I say. She looks like she might throw up again. If we can’t laugh, well…I might give in to the panic clawing at me. “Too soon?”

Way too soon. Let’s just go get that coffee.”

HOW MUCH LONGER DO I HAVE TO WAIT?

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