We moan simultaneously when I do.

She tips her head back. “Why does this feel so good?”

I don’t know—I don’t have an answer for her because I’m baffled, too. Sex with her was supposed to be about sex, not the way it’s making us feel, but apparently it’s got us questioning our sanity after having shagged each other.

There is no way in hell we can go back to school and go back to the way things were before this weekend.

Not possible.

Twenty-Two

Georgia

“You’re so sexy—like a Viking. I could ride you all night, you hot British piece of Viking ass.” A loud smack echoes in the air as my hand connects with the flesh of his butt cheeks.

“I’m your husband now, you can shag me whenever you want. Are you going to move your shite into my room when we get home, wifey? I love you, you’re so beautiful.”

“No, you’re beautiful. Come kiss me with that gap, you hottie. Put that mouth on me…”

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

“Here?”

His mouth kisses my hand, sucking the ring I have on my fourth finger…

With a gasp I bolt up, immediately assaulted by blinding light.

My outstretched arm tries to block the sun—dear lord, why is it so freaking bright in here?

I want to die.

How much did we drink last night? How sad is it that I don’t remember?

I press a hand to my forehead; it throbs like there’s been a hammer taken to it, and I can’t tell what day it is. Why can’t I feel my face?

Plus.

I have to pee.

Rolling my head to the side, I gauge the distance to the bathroom by cracking a single eyelid open and staring at the wall.

Why is the bathroom a million feet away?

I roll back toward the middle of the bed, squeezing my lids shut again to block out the sunshine; it’s determined to break in and wake my ass up and get me moving.

“Ugh, what time is it?”

It must be early; I rarely sleep late even when I have nowhere else to be. I’m a morning person who usually eagerly hops out of bed at the first sign of light, so why does it feel like Ashley and I slept the day away?

Clock, clock, where is the clock…?

Must be on Ashley’s side of the bed.

He’s on his back, arm slung across his eyes, mouth gaping open (a tad unattractively). No drool, but still—he looks like a dead fish.

And he’s wearing a ring.

It’s absolutely impossible not to notice, black against his skin, circling a finger on his hand where a ring never existed before.

I squint as I inspect it, leaning in closer on the off chance I’m hallucinating.

“Are you wearing a ring?” My voice is raspy. “Did you have that on yesterday?”

He moves, but barely, removing the arm from across his face, confused and bleary-eyed.

“No, I’m not wearing a ring. What are you going on about?”

I pick up the hand and give it a tiny shake. “Ring.”

He looks at it, doing his best to focus on the solid band now circling his left hand.

“What the bloody hell? Where did this come from?” He fiddles with it, twisting it in circles. Slides it off and holds it up to his eye, staring into the hole.

He looks over at me, gaze trailing down my arm to the same spot on my body.

“What the bloody hell is that?”

“What the bloody hell is what?”

“That.”

He points rudely, and I follow. On the fourth finger of my left hand sits a diamond ring so big my eyes actually bug out of my skull, and I imagine I look like a cartoon caricature from an old Warner Brothers movie gaping down at it.

I thrust my hand in his direction. “Ashley, what is this?”

Does it sound like I’m having a slight panic attack? Because I am. I shake my head, but the ring doesn’t budge.

He’s wearing a ring and I’m wearing a ring.

We’re in Las Vegas.

“It looks like a bloody wedding band—engagement band—I don’t fucking know. Why are we both wearing rings?”

He sounds far less horrified than I do, but then again, he’s probably still half out of it having just been woken out of a deep, hungover sleep.

“Are we still drunk?” Ashley wonders out loud. “Is it still last night?”

Last night.

So many things happened last night.

We began the day off at the pool as we’d planned—after a few rounds of morning sex—lounging around with poolside service and plenty of alcohol under the hot beating-down sun.

Held hands as we lay napping. Kissing. More napping, more alcohol, more food.

There were dinner plans in the mix somewhere—a quick meal at the hotel’s newest restaurant—then to the theater for their critically acclaimed aquatics show. We had priority seating, which came complete with a server and—free booze.

I don’t recall having that much.

Stumbling, laughing.

Kissing in the lobby against a slot machine. Ashley stuck a quarter in but didn’t end up winning anything. Kissing at the casino bar where we promised ourselves one more drink only.

One more and then we’d go back to the room and to bed.

Well. Go back to the room and have sex.

But then we passed the wedding chapel on the second level en route.

Visions of that chapel flash in my mind: two French doors flanked by large floral arrangements. A side office with a young woman inside who greeted us when we stuck our heads in to ask questions.

Beth.

No, Gretchen.

No, Meredith…

Doesn’t matter. She was perky and upbeat and way too good at her job, and before we knew it, Ashley and I were caught up in the excitement, too.

What two drunk young adults who just spent the day cuddling and kissing and drinking and being pampered wouldn’t be?

I cover my mouth as realization sets in with a tiny gasp.

“Oh my god, Ashley. We didn’t.”

We can’t have.

But the memories begin flooding me like a tidal wave of cliches, plowing me into the sand, and facts cannot be ignored.

I take you, Ashley, to be my husband, yup I sure do…oh my gosh, isn’t he dreamy?

Drinks at dinner, drinks with dessert. Drinks at the show, drinks at the casino. Drinks, drinks, drinks when I hardly ever drink at all.

Never like this.

“We’re not married,” he says firmly, shaking his head. “This can’t be legal. I’m not from America.”

Ha! I don’t think that matters. They issued us a marriage license and took our information and…

“Really? Not married? Then why are we wearing rings? Don’t you remember anything that happened?”

Because I’m starting to.

“I knew it was you the second I laid eyes on you, Georgia Parker.”

“I think I love you, Ashley Dryden whatever all your names are, and I don’t think it’s because I’m drunk.” I looked over at Meredith. “I’m not that drunk.”

“You’re pretty drunk,” she said ruefully.

“I have two middle names too, you know,” Ashley told me, hand on the small of my back—it’s my new favorite place to be touched by him.