I take it and thank her. She is part-angel, after all. I drink some of the life-sustaining substance, and its restorative powers begin to kick in. Maybe I’m closing in on halfway human now.

“You okay?” Her voice is gentle, caring. “I didn’t feel so hot when I woke up, either. But I’m managing better now.”

I shrug, trying to play it cool, which is not helped by the fact that I’m swinging free this morning. She doesn’t seem fazed by my lack of pants, though. Must really give this woman a raise. She’s unflappable. She’s gone above and beyond the call of duty. “Yeah, sure. And sorry about all this.” I gesture to my crotch, which is heading into morning wood territory.

She shoots me a tiny grin.

Jesus Christ.

Could I possibly cross any more lines of inappropriate behavior with her? My eyes land on her left hand, and the matching ring.

My heart stops pumping. My breath stutters. The floor falls out.

I squeeze my eyes shut. No way. No way. No way. This is just a dream. A very vivid dream. I haven’t actually crossed that line. But when I open my eyes, she’s here, I’m here, and so are the rings. My heart gallops away from my chest and steals my sanity with it.

I point.

Gawk.

Try to speak.

“What the . . .?”

She parks her hand on her hips. “What? Is there a tiger in the tub?”

“Huh?”

“Are you missing a tooth?”

My hand goes to my mouth. No, please God no—I have nightmares about that. I love my teeth. Years of braces set them straight, and now they’re a fantastic set of gleaming choppers. Running my fingers over them, I breathe a sigh of relief. Whew. They’re all good. “Teeth are fine.”

“Or is this the thing freaking you out?” She holds up her hand, brandishing the matching band once more. “You married me last night, dingdong.” She rolls her eyes. They’re a bit red, like she didn’t get much more sleep than I did. “I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

“Noooo,” I say coolly, lying my fucking ass off. “I remember everything. It’s all crystal clear.”

She cocks her head, studying me. “Is it?”

I drag a hand along the back of my neck, determined to get a handle on the big, fat blank inside my mind. “Yeah. It’s in Technicolor up here,” I say, tapping my head.

“That’s great, then. You won’t be surprised when the cops show up shortly to take a statement about how you stripped to your birthday suit, jumped into the Bellagio Fountains and shouted, ‘Join me, Frisky Mittens.’”

Ding, ding, ding.

That’s it. With those words, bits and pieces of last night surface. I remember a sideburn, a rollercoaster, her frisky hands, a towering drink, a crazy proposal, and then my head spins. I sway, grabbing the sink. More comes into focus. The fucking and the kissing and the talking and then the brilliant idea, like we’d never had a better one in the world, to get married.

And so we did.

Because . . . we were drunk in Vegas.

Holy shit.

I kissed my assistant.

I banged my assistant.

I married my assistant.

I broke my one big fat rule. Because I don’t, as in never fucking ever, mix business and pleasure. But by all accounts, last night I stomped on that rule in spectacular fashion.

“Oh, and apparently there’s a viral video circulating of you climbing up the Vegas sign,” she adds. “Like a tree monkey.”

She’s fucking with me, but rather than let on that I’m reeling, I adopt my best playful smile. “I’m agile, but I’m not that agile, sweetheart. I’d need suction cups on my hands to pull that off.” In an effort to regain some memory cred with her, I rattle off, “Maybe if you’d told me I climbed a rollercoaster I’d believe you. Or a pinball machine.”

I just can’t fathom that those fiestas of fucking led to a proposal, and I can’t stop staring at my finger, either, like the longer I look, the greater the chance it’ll disappear. But it’s not conducting a vanishing act, even though the details of the wedding itself are just a blur, like a streak of neon across the night. I can recall a guy in a tight gold leisure suit, some Elvis tunes, laughing like crazy with Natalie, then a speedy “I do.” Next, a ride in a limo, toasting, sticking our heads out the window, the night air blasting our faces and cooling us off from the heat of all that . . . screwing.

A memory of the sounds she made when she came blasts through my brain, like a chorus of her pleasure, stirring my cock to full salute.

Why, oh why, did the sex with her have to be so ridiculously sublime?

She taps her wrist. “Our flight leaves in two hours, Sleeping Beauty. I did a little research before you got out of bed, and it looks like there’s just enough time for you to shower and for us to get an annulment, grab a car to the airport, and make our departure. I checked us into our flight already, and we can just go to TSA pre-screen since we’re first class,” she says, brushing one palm against the other.

My mind spins with whiplash. We got married last night, and Natalie has already arranged the exodus from that bad decision? How does she do this? She yawns, the only other evidence that last night took a toll on her, too, but then she returns to normal in a heartbeat. Damn, she has impressive hangover recovery skills.

“You found someone already?” I shouldn’t be surprised. This is what she does. She’s impeccably organized and a master planner. Still, this is a new level of efficiency even for her.