Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
No. It’s an air-raid siren announcing that aliens have invaded Earth.
I sit up, whipping my gaze to the window. But there are no spaceships filling the sky.
I rub my eyes, trying to shake off the dead sleep I was in. The alarm blares again and rattles around in my skull.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
That’s my alarm. I fumble for my phone on the nightstand, but I can’t feel it there.
Weird.
Swinging my legs out of bed, I glance around the suite, get my bearings.
The bed is a mess.
Sheets are tangled everywhere.
But when I look down at my chest, my maroon polo is plastered to me, right along with my jeans.
I pluck at the fabric like it’ll reveal clues as to why I’m not naked. I should be naked. But why the hell is Hunter conked out in his jeans too? His navy shirt is twisted around his chest, half open, like he slept in his clothes too.
You don’t usually put clothes back on after nighttime nookie.
The sound shrieks again—I can’t play sex detective right now. Or un-sex detective. I get out of bed and follow the sound of my phone to the entryway table.
The device is losing its ever-loving mind. I expect it to be flashing get off the planet warnings at that alert level.
I yawn, my mouth like a canyon, and I silence the your flight is leaving in an hour and a half alarm.
There. That’s better. Now I can think again. I squint at my surroundings. The sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows. My mouth is a dessert, and that means…
Ah, hell. There’s nothing more pathetic than a wicked hangover.
But as I rub a hand through my bedhead, a slow, blissful smile forms along with the realization—my head barely hurts.
Whoa.
This is…good.
I head back to the bedroom, pump a fist, then freeze, staring at my hand.
What the fuckity fuck fuck?
I flick my hand trying to shake the ring off like a spider. Or a nightmare—that’s the only reason I’d be wearing my wedding band. I grab at the offending metal to yank it off then realize this ring is gold, where the one from Oliver was platinum…
“Hey, you.” I jerk my gaze toward the bedroom at Hunter’s voice. “Don’t you have a flight to catch too?”
My eyes bug out.
The alarm from my phone?
That was my freaking flight alert.
Man, my processing abilities are grinding at the slowest gears this morning.
But I have a plane to catch and, and, and…
I’M MARRIED.
Holy shit.
I’m married.
I. Can’t. Move.
I can only stare at Hunter as he packs in an efficient flurry. I spot the matching band on his finger. I part my lips, but I can’t form words to ask how, what, when, and then to shriek.
But Hunter? He’s totally fine. Just moving quickly through his morning to-do list. He strips off his shirt and pulls on a clean one, then does the same with his jeans and boxers—all with that hand that’s wearing a ring.
“I slept late. Guess I’ll shower at my flat. No time to spare.”
He scurries into the bathroom but doesn’t shut the door. I hear him turn on the faucet then ask, “What flight are you on?” in toothbrush garble.
That snaps me out of my stupor. No matter what happened last night, I can’t miss my flight. I cross to stand in the bathroom doorway as he turns off the faucet with that hand I can’t stop staring at.
Picking up his Dopp kit, Hunter turns to the door, his brow knitting when I don’t move out of the way. “It’s getting late, Nate. I’m on the eleven o’clock flight to London. If you hurry, we can share a Lyft.”
Why is he talking about ride-sharing right now? We. Are. Hitched.
“Your hand. Look at your hand.”
Hunter glances down, then recoils. “What in the bloody hell?”
“Holy fuck, right?” Finally, he fucking gets it.
He holds his hand out, studying the band. “What did we do last night?”
“I don’t know!”
But then another phone bleats, chirping, Okay, campers, rise and shine, and don’t forget your booties, ’cause it’s cold out there.
“Your phone quotes Groundhog Day?” I ask, like that’s the most shocking part of the day.
“It’s my second alarm. Slept through the first one,” Hunter explains, rushing to grab his phone from the nightstand. He sounds clipped now. “I’ve never missed a flight in my life. I need to go.”
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to calculate the magnitude of the mistake I made last night, plus the speed with which we can get out of this marriage, times the trouble I’ll be in if I miss my flight to London.
I start with the easiest. “Yeah, we can share a Lyft. We’re on the same flight”
“Then we’ll sort this out on the way. I’m sure there’s an, I dunno, annulment center in the airport,” Hunter suggests.
It’s the first ray of hope since I spotted the metal on my hand. I’m relieved, too, he feels the same way—ready to split. “Definitely. A drive-through divorce parlor maybe.”