Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
We climb back into the limo.
We pop another bottle of cheap champagne.
And then one kiss blurs into another. A pop song from the nineties blurs into a pop song from the two thousands.
A touch blurs into a fuck.
And all of a sudden, I'm in bed in the hotel room, and we're kissing and touching and fucking.
And I'm sound asleep, dreaming next to him.
I wake up with a pounding headache and dry mouth and absolutely no clothes.
In fact, I'm not wearing anything except for the ring on my left hand.
No, the rings.
A wedding ring. An engagement ring.
And there's a matching band on Jackson's left hand.
Last night was more than a blur of sex and alcohol.
Last night, we got married.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jackson
Sun streams through the window, casting the room in a yellow glow.
The sights of Las Vegas greet me. The black pyramid of the Luxor. The white walls of the Excalibur. The buildings of the New York, New York and the Strip beyond it.
All beneath beautiful blue skies. There isn't a cloud in sight.
Only Daphne, sitting on the bed, naked, staring at the ring on her left hand.
This should be a dream. My new wife, in nothing but her wedding ring, in our bed.
Her wavy hair falls down her long, elegant back. An image straight out of a movie. Except for all the hurt in her posture.
She stares at the rock, transfixed, as if she's not sure how it got there. As if she's not sure how she got here.
She turns to me, her eyes wide, her face racked with some strange mix of fear and confusion.
I've seen the look on other people, other women, but never here. Never the morning after.
But then, I've never married someone on a dare.
Maybe this is the normal reaction on day one.
"Did we…" Her voice trails off. She doesn't quite get to a period or a question mark. She knows. But she doesn't know.
What is it she's asking?
If we had sex.
If we got married.
If we fell in love.
Did she forget all of it or just the part where I slipped a ring on her finger?
I don't know what to say, so I turn to her, and with as soft a voice as I can manage, I ask, "Are you okay?
She sits there, her eyes still on the ring, her feet still on the ground, her body's still tense and stiff.
That's a no if I've ever seen one, but which part hurts her?
It's one thing if she regrets her over-the-top dare. It's another if she wants to erase the entire night.
It meant something to me. It filled me in a way nothing else has.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I need a minute."
"Okay." I can give her space. If that's what she needs. "Do you want me to leave?" I'm not sure where to go. Only that I want to be somewhere else. Somewhere she isn't so hurt.
She shakes her head. "No, I'll go." She presses her palms together. "I'll text you later." She doesn't add when I'm ready to talk about this. Or If I'm ready to talk about this.
No. Daphne is a grown-up. This is awkward, yes, but we both know better. We're both prepared to communicate.
Aren't we?
I was sure of that last night. Right now, I don't know.
Things aren't more clear in the bright light of day. They're just different.
"Do you need anything?" I ask.
She shakes her head. She stands up and tries to smooth her dress, but she's not wearing one. She's not wearing anything except the ring.
She looks down at her long, naked body as if she's not sure how that got here either.
But is she thinking all the way back to birth or just last night?
She must remember the sex at the bar.
In the limo.
At the club.
Neither of us was drunk then. Not yet.
After, maybe, but not then. I looked in her eyes. I saw into her soul. That's how it felt.
Maybe I imagined something, but not that. Not the clear-eyed desire to fuck me.
I may not know marriage, but I know sex.
I don't offer to leave again.
Instead, I climb out of bed and move to the bathroom.
She barely looks at me as I move. The start of a marriage norm—nudity, who cares—or because she can't face last night?
No. I'm not obsessing. Not yet, anyway.
I close the door and go through my morning routine. When I'm finished, I stand at the door and listen to her dress.
Her movements are rushed, but they're not entirely frantic.
She's starting to think. Maybe how the fuck do I get out of this. Maybe wow, we sure went there, but it's all good.
I don't know.
I try not to question it. I try not to do what I've done in every other relationship and assume we're on the same page, assume I know what book we're reading.
This is new to both of us.