Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Hudson: bc im ur hsbnddddiekao
57
Molly
My head pounds.
Is there a drumline competition in my head?
Nope. It’s just you drank too much, like an idiot.
I lift my hands to my eyes and scrub away the remaining sleep. The movement makes me groan. Ouch.
Why does everything hurt?
As the world around me comes into focus, the sunlight streaming through the hotel curtains feels less like morning and more like a punishment, each ray stabbing at my already fragile senses. Even breathing too deeply makes me feel sick to my stomach, nausea rolling through me in fresh, horrifying waves.
What the hell happened last night?
I sit up slowly, clutching the sheets to my chest as the room tilts.
The faint smell of champagne lingers, mixed with something sweet—is that cake?
Did I eat cake last night?
My brain is a mess. Pure chaos as I try to think, but the raging hangover I currently have is making that impossible too.
Images, feelings, snippets of words . . . all of it slips away every time I try to remember. I rub my temples, willing the headache to go away so my memories will return.
Okay. Club. Dancing. Sneaking off into the alcove with Hudson.
Kissing. Touching. Mason texting.
This is good. I remember the club.
Think.
What else happened?
I left.
Am I just hungover from the club?
No.
I drank more after.
Champagne in the room . . .
My stomach twists uncomfortably as the memories come back to me in flashes.
Hudson showed up at my door.
The bottle of champagne I gave him to open.
Why did I do that again? My headache definitely stems from that poor decision.
I was already drunk before my tongue even touched the bubbles . . .
Okay, what else can I remember?
Think.
His grin.
The kind of grin that spells trouble.
Laughing. I remember laughing so hard my belly hurt.
Music?
Okay, that one throws me for a loop. Did I really play music in my room?
I did, and we danced.
“Shit,” I whisper, my eyes widening as a wave of scenes play out in my mind.
Hudson and I stumbled out of the hotel.
We were drunk.
Okay, but where did we go?
I remember we were still high on adrenaline from the Saints winning the Cup.
He threw his arm around me . . .
We weren’t hiding. It felt as natural in the world to walk openly with him. Granted, it was the middle of the night, and everyone we knew was already asleep. Maybe that’s why we felt so comfortable.
A flash of him beaming down at me, a smile so wide it was big enough to split the Vegas Strip.
A joke.
He made me laugh.
Then he said . . .
“You know—we should just get married. Solve all our problems in one shot.”
I laughed, swatting at him like it was a joke. “Yeah, sure, Wilde. Great plan. Nothing could go wrong there.”
We wandered the streets.
Neon lights flashed.
Crowds of people partied to all hours of the night.
We giggled like teenagers.
And then we saw it—oh God—an Elvis impersonator. A white chapel.
Hudson looked at me like I was the only person in the world.
“Oh my God.”
I shake my head.
“No. No. No.”
As if I were watching a movie in my mind, I see myself clear as day . . . A very drunk version of me, swaying and smiling as I say the words . . . “I do.”
“Holy crap.” My hands fly to my face as the final piece of the night slams into me like a freight train.
I jump out of bed, my heart pounding harder than my head as I stumble toward the mirror.
Wow. I look awful.
My reflection matches the outcome of my memories—hair a tangled mess, mascara smudged on my cheeks in a way that screams bad decisions, and a faint red mark on my neck suggesting . . . Holy shit, are they hickeys? Who gets hickeys anymore?
Me. Apparently. I do.
I raise my hand to see if it’s not a hickey, but maybe just lipstick smudged when something glints in the morning sunlight.
Ground, please swallow me whole.
What the fuck is that?
My stomach flips as I glance down at my left hand. This has got to be a joke. The universe’s cruelest joke because what I see on my hand makes my heart stop beating.
A simple silver band on my ring finger.
“No, no, no, no,” I mutter, pacing the room as the memories play back in sharper detail now, each more horrifying than the last.
Hudson’s crooked grin as Elvis asks him if he takes me to be his lawfully wedded wife.
Hudson saying yes.
My eyes close. Maybe if I don’t open them, it won’t be true.
But that’s bullshit because I can now see it clear as day: Me saying yes.
I said yes.
What the hell was I thinking?
You weren’t thinking. Not at all. Not even a little bit.
In a haze of booze and fits of laughs, I say I do.
I blame the champagne.
I blame Hudson’s damn smirk. It needs a warning label. One shouldn’t be held accountable for what they do when Hudson Wilde smirks at you. You’re liable to accidentally get married. By Elvis.