Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
“Oh my God,” I say, almost dropping the phone. My hand shakes as I hand it back to Ella. “That … can’t be right. We didn’t …” I look at a half-naked Renn. “I wouldn’t …”
I mean, I would, but not marriage. Marriage? Marriage?
There’s no way.
I shuffle to the bed and sit on the edge.
“There are pictures,” Ella says. “If it helps, you look beautiful.”
“No, that doesn’t help.” I look up at her. “Who lets two inebriated individuals get married?”
“The State of Nevada.” Brock comes out of the bathroom with a towel. He throws one to Renn a little harder than necessary. “You are legally married. I had my lawyer check to be sure before I came up.”
Renn’s phone rings again. He plucks it out of the heap of sheets and cracked wood, sighing as he looks at the caller.
“Why don’t you take that? I need a few minutes alone,” I say, finding it hard to breathe.
He wipes the towel down the side of his face. “Okay. I’ll be back, and we’ll figure this out.”
I nod.
He walks by me, pausing to grab my shoulder for a moment. The look he gives me—like he’s as bamboozled by this news as me—helps.
I look at Ella. “Could you get me something for this headache? And could you,” I say to Brock, “leave me alone for a little while? I need to … think.”
Brock doesn’t look pleased but appears slightly less angry than before. I’ll take it.
They form a line and leave the room, Ella shutting the door softly behind her.
I head to the bathroom to throw up.
CHAPTER 10
Blakely
I rinse my toothbrush and look at my reflection.
My hair is ratty, matted in places by what I’m hoping is ice cream. Eye makeup is smeared across my face. The evidence of red lipstick is hidden on an earlobe.
I can’t decide if it looks like I’ve had a good night or if I was mauled by a bear. A very large, muscled, handsome bear. Ugh.
“How do you run off and get married after dinner, Blakely?” I shut off the tap. “Marriage isn’t an after-dinner snack.” I set the toothbrush in the travel case. “Renn might be a snack, but marriage is not.”
I groan, mentally lambasting myself for making light of the situation. Because light, it is not.
There must be something no one has caught—a lie, a misstep in the paperwork, some freaking reason two people can’t just accidentally get married. This is Vegas, for Pete’s sake. Doesn’t this happen all the time?
Ella comes in, offering me a pain reliever and a sports drink. “Here. This will help.”
“Thanks.” I toss the pill in my mouth. The drink makes me want to hurl when it splashes into my stomach.
Ella runs a bath, adding a squirt of shampoo for bubbles. “Okay, this feels like a rough start to the day, I’m sure. But this isn’t the end of the world.”
“Easy for you to say. Your name isn’t on the front page of Exposé. Again.”
Memories of the first time my name was in bold lettering online have me gripping the tub's edge to steady myself.
“I agree—this isn’t a best-case scenario,” she says. “But this isn’t Edward we’re dealing with. Renn isn’t feeding the tabloids stories to distract them from his bullshit. It’s not the same thing.”
I exhale a shaking breath. “It doesn’t matter. The magazines don’t care about the truth. They blamed me for crashing Edward’s car, trashing his house, and trying to blackmail him for cash.” Bile creeps up my throat. “Do you think there’s a chance they aren’t going to call me a gold digger again? If so, you’re being naive.”
“Get in the bath. Everything is better in the bath.” She turns her back to give me some privacy. “Besides, you stink.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“How much did you drink last night?”
I shed the robe and what’s left of my bra. Then I sink into the tub. “Enough to get married.”
Ella pulls the footstool across the room and sits.
The heat of the water soothes my stomach and helps clear some of the funk from my head. I take my loofah and clean the melted ice cream from my skin.
“You’re sure it’s a real marriage?” I ask, still in shock.
“I’m sure, friend. Here.” She clicks around on her phone and then hands it to me. “There are pictures. Maybe if you look at them, it’ll help trigger your memory.”
I take the device warily after drying my hands on a towel.
Resting my pulsing head against the bath pillow, I look at the images from last night. In the first picture, we’re standing in a line.
“Hey, I remember this. There was a couple in front of us—Oliver and Izzy.” My jaw drops, and I look at Ella. “How do I remember two strangers’ names and not my wedding?”
She shrugs.
“Oliver kept taking selfies. He was adorable. And I think they took a picture of us? Maybe? I can’t remember.” I swipe to another image. “Don’t remember that. Or that,” I say, swiping again.