©Mira Lyn Kelly
WAKING UP MARRIED
Forced to listen to one heaving revolt after another reverberate off the polished marble, Connor Reed cursed his conscience.
Talk about an inconvenient burden. No matter how his stomach rocked and his head slammed, there was no way he could make a bolt for the beckoning doorway to freedom at the far wall.
Wrenching his gaze back to his own slightly green reflection, he turned off the tap and wrung out a towel. Pushed some empathy into his expression and prepared to face the music.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he called, crossing over to the pitiful creature half leaning into, half clutching the toilet in front of her. “Feeling any better?”
Raccoon eyes peered out from beneath a blond rat’s nest as she reached for the damp cloth he held in offering. “Carter—”
“Connor,” he corrected drily, torn between amusement and what, by all rights, ought to be the very antithesis of it.
“We need a lawyer,” she gasped, barely finding the time to look chagrined before the next wave of revolt took her.
A lawyer. Not exactly a stellar kickoff to their honeymoon. But then, this wasn’t exactly a stellar situation to begin with. Of course, in the less than fifteen minutes since the warm body sprawled beside him had moaned—once, and not in a good way—then lurched from the bed to the bathroom, he hadn’t quite put all the soggy pieces of the night before into place. But based on the shocking evidence at hand—or more specifically, finger...and the band of glinting diamonds encircling hers—this was the worst-case scenario come to life. Cutting loose gone bad. Consequences in action. Yeah, in all likelihood, this was going to be a major hassle to clean up.
So a lawyer sounded like an ideal place to start. Once the upchuck portion of the morning concluded, at any rate.
“One thing at a time, babe. Let’s get through this, and we’ll worry about the rest later.”
Whatever her choked response was, he got the gist it was an agreement of sorts.
Damn, what a disaster.
Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, Connor gave his blanching bride a not-so-subtle once-over.
Twelve hours ago she’d been “authentic” with her sharp wit and gently rough edges. Her too-wide smile, assortment of freckles and sexy laugh. Now, with her hair threatening to dip into God only knew, she just looked...rough. No gentle about it.
Still, even as he stared at the hot mess she was before him, fragmented images bombarded his mind with hints of who she’d been the night before. The girl-next-door giving in to a bit of wild. The perfect fit for his bad-boy mood. He’d thought she looked like a few hours of fun.
So how the hell had she ended up flipped over his shoulder, giggling about how crazy he was, as he toted her into one of those all-night chapels Las Vegas was famous for?
Megan turned, giving him a full-on frontal view of the too-tight, hot-pink T-shirt she’d been wearing when he’d stumbled into the bathroom after her.
Stamped across her bust in black block letters were two words: GOT SPERM?
Oh, right. That was how.
Hell.
* * *
What had she been thinking!
Megan peered up at the darkening scowl across Carter’s—no—Connor’s face and then down at what was probably a combined ten carats of diamonds adorning the fourth finger of her left hand...and heaved into the bowl again.
She’d had sex. With a stranger. Someone she maintained only the foggiest recollection of meeting. And then...she’d gone and married him.
Or maybe they’d waited...going the more traditional route and saving themselves for after the wedding. So it would be special.
Ugh!
So incredibly special the only detail of the entire consummation she remembered was the soft rub of fabric between her thighs, the heady weight of him above her and her intense frustration in getting her toe caught in his belt loop while trying to wrestle his tie loose.
And now, here she was on her knees, hurling her lungs out while this man, essentially a stranger, bore witness to one of the most intimate unpleasantnesses a person could endure. She wished he’d left when she’d told him to. But he’d stayed to make sure she was okay...like the good husband he was.
It was almost enough to make her laugh, only it really wasn’t funny and her body was otherwise engaged.
“There can’t be much left” came the gruff voice from behind her.
As the spasms subsided, she hazarded a glance at the man she’d married. Beyond the contemplative expression, those dark eyes didn’t offer up much to read.
“There isn’t...” she groaned. “I’ve been on empty for a few rounds already. This...is just my stomach making a point...I think.”
“Hmm. Really driving it home, I see.” The touch of dry humor pulled her focus back to him again. To the details she’d missed in the first pass. He was tall. And not because of her near-floor-level perspective. Tall enough so as he leaned against the open doorway, his free hand hung in a loose grip from the top of the frame mere inches from his head. And he was built in a powerful, lean-strength kind of way where the muscles across his chest, abdomen, shoulders and arms were well-defined but without the extreme bulk of serious bodybuilders. This guy just looked really fit. And as if that weren’t bad enough, he was classically handsome too, with a blade-straight nose, high cheekbones and an assortment of even features so appealing she suddenly wondered how long she’d been staring.
From her little hangout on the floor...by the toilet...where she’d been throwing up.
Ugh!
Really, the humiliation couldn’t get much worse. But it didn’t matter. This guy and all his good looks weren’t a part of her plan. So what if he was handsome, or that she’d seen hints of the kind of humor she typically appreciated, or that she was, in fact, married to him? She’d had enough close calls in her life with men she’d actually known, and she was through with the whole business.
Still, pride had her stumbling to her feet on limbs that were clumsy and tight from the combination of dehydration and kneeling too long. Limbs that weren’t quite working. Suddenly she was going right back down until two strong hands gripped her beneath her arms, holding her steady as she regained her footing.
The contact was awkward. Her, trying to hold herself apart; him, trying to support her without getting too close. “Thank you.”
“Not a problem.” And then after a pause, “Just one of the benefits of having a husband around, I guess.”
She nodded, exhausted, overwhelmed, but somehow more grateful than words could convey for that bit of superficial exchange. As much as they needed to, she wasn’t ready to talk about what happened last night. About how they were going to sort it out this morning and over the next however long it took to get an annulment processed.
Not until she’d at the very least had a shower, tooth-brushing, floss and several intensive minutes with the most mediciney mouthwash she could get her hands on. Glancing down, she added a change of clothes to her list. And then, committed to doing her part, she replied in kind, “Knew there was a reason I’d picked one up.”
The low answering chuckle had her daring another look over her shoulder.
It was the smile that did it. That brought the melee of vodka-soaked images into order enough for her to see at least a glimpse of the man from the night before rather than the near stranger she’d woken beside this morning.
Oh, God. What had she gotten herself into—and how fast could she get herself out of it?
