Chapter 1

The moment I woke up after my best friend’s raucous bachelorette party in Las Vegas, I realized two things in quick succession:

To my horror, the man had his arm slung across me, and it weighed at least a thousand pounds, I was sure. My bladder yelled profanities at me as I pushed at the ridiculously heavy arm trapping me against the bed.

Finally, he turned over, taking his arm with him. I shuffled to the bathroom and didn’t feel the panic hit me until after I’d peed and saw the ring on my left hand.

Ring. Left hand. I didn’t wear a ring there anymore since I’d caught my ex-fiancé cheating on me. I’d thrown the ring David had bought me in his face.

This ring wasn’t that diamond David had gotten me. I peered more closely at it. It was—plastic? Was it from a ring pop?

Did I call the police? No, that was stupid. 911, I got married last night to a stranger. Yeah, that’d go over well. I was sure the Vegas police would just laugh and tell us to get a lawyer.

I heard movement in the room. I froze. Glancing in the mirror, I saw a wild-eyed woman with bedhead, smeared lipstick, raccoon eyes from melted mascara, and a whole bunch of hickeys across my collarbone.

I very rarely swore, but at that moment I wanted to swear until I was blue in the face.

What had I done last night? And who was in my bed with me?

I wasn’t that kind of girl—you know, the wild girl. The girl who had one-night stands in Vegas. The girl who threw caution to the wind.

I’d been about to get married to a man who drove a Prius and was an accountant. I always got the perfect attendance certificate in elementary school. I’d been one of the valedictorians at my high school; I’d gotten an A- once because my teacher had dared to think my essay on fashion in The Great Gatsby was “insipid, at best.” (She’d been wrong, by the way.)

I was Marigold Wright, and I was a good girl.

I prided myself on my good girl-ness. Where my sisters were either oddballs or outright deviants (at least in my mind), I never crossed lines. I liked lines. Lines were comforting. They existed for a reason; otherwise the world would be in utter chaos.

My one real indulgence in life was my makeup obsession. My collection was scattered across the bathroom counter—an excessive amount of products for one person on a brief trip—and strangely enough, having this man see it all seemed like a violation of my privacy. Even more than being in bed with me and him being naked. I began to put my makeup away, knowing in my haste I’d have to go through it and reorganize it when I got home.

“Are you done in there?” a growling male voice said through the bathroom door. “I’m fuckin’ dying out here.” An accent tinged his speech, but I was too tired to try to place it.

I tossed the last products into my makeup bag and scrubbed at my face. Realizing it didn’t matter, I opened the door with a frigid expression.

The man—who wore only a sheet draped around his hips—smiled down at me. No, he didn’t smile; he smirked. I’d never been the recipient of a true smirk before, but this man clearly had perfected the look.

He was tall, so tall I had to tilt my head back. He had to be at least six-five; I was five-ten, so it was rare that men were tall enough that I felt short in comparison. But what arrested me most was how dark his eyes were. Oh, and the fact that he was jacked. Muscles for days, his chest covered in dark hair that matched the beard shadowing his cheeks and jaw.

“Are you done or can I take a piss now?” he said.

I blushed to the roots of my hair. Being a redhead, my blushes tended to be bright and extremely obvious, and this man in front of me seemed very amused with my red cheeks. I wanted to ask him if he remembered what had happened last night, but it was as if the words had dried up in my throat.

Or maybe it was because I had a large male glaring down at me because I wouldn’t let him pee.

“Be my guest,” I said, ducking under his arm. I tried to look as prim as I could, but it was difficult when I looked like a total wreck and didn’t even know this man’s name.

He shut the door with an ironic bow, giving me some time to collect my thoughts. Actually, I didn’t need to collect my thoughts: I needed to run. But as I got dressed and began to toss things into my suitcase, I realized he was the one who needed to leave. This was my room.

I stopped packing when memories started to surface, like images from a movie. I remembered stumbling down the Las Vegas strip, and I could remember this man’s voice beside me. Then the bachelorette party where the bride-to-be, Jenna, kept shoving tequila shots in front of me. Or had that happened before we’d stumbled down the strip?

Worst of all, I remembered the touch of a man—this man—who made heat lick through my veins.

But he wasn’t just any man. He had a name. I remembered that now, because we’d met the day prior to the bachelorette party.

Liam. His name was Liam, but his last name eluded me at the moment. He’d sat next to me at the rehearsal dinner, and then at the hotel pool after that—

Oh God, had I slept with him last night? Based on the hickeys, it certainly seemed plausible. But I couldn’t remember, and that made my stomach curdle.

I needed a bottle of water, ibuprofen, and some explanations. I scrambled around in my suitcase, only to find a gift bag from the bachelorette party the night before. Right as I pulled out a pink dildo that said Pleasure for your pink on the base, Liam emerged from the bathroom.

“I’m flattered, love, but pink isn’t really my color,” he said over my shoulder. “Besides the fact that I’m always the one who does the penetrating,” he added with a wry chuckle.

I tried to stuff the dildo back into the bag, but I only proceeded to empty the rest of its contents, which included: a handful of condoms—ribbed for her pleasure, so obviously there was a theme here; a butt plug with a diamond handle; and a bullet vibe that started buzzing way too enthusiastically for my pounding head.

I could’ve cheerfully strangled Jenna for giving us these party favors last night. Whatever happened to a piece of jewelry or a gift certificate from Starbucks? Something benign, something that didn’t involve things that went up your butt. Although anything could become a butt plug if you really tried, I reasoned.

“Oh my God,” I groaned. “This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening—”

I turned to face Liam, only to see that he was naked.

And no, the dildo was no match for him. Jesus Christ on a stick, how could a man look that good naked? He didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. He was built like a linebacker, although, admittedly, I didn’t know exactly how any football player should look. I’d always been more into slender guys.

Then again, my slender in all things ex-fiancé had cheated on me so my taste in men was clearly suspect.

Liam just waited for me to speak. He wasn’t at all embarrassed by his nudity, and based on how perfectly built he was he had no reason to be modest. To my utter shock, he was soon half-hard.

I watched in fascination as his cock grew before my very eyes. He had a delicious V that cut past his hips and pointed straight to his package. I wanted to lick both of those lines until I reached his cock—

I finally found my voice, because I did not have time to stare at a semi-stranger’s erection. “Put some clothes on!” I screeched. “And get out of my room!”

He crossed his arms over his broad chest, that dumb smirk on his handsome face. “Last night wasn’t that bad.”

Last night? I scowled. “I’m not having this discussion until you put some pants on.”

“Funny, considering how much you wanted them off last night.”

I ignored that remark, even though butterflies exploded inside my stomach. That was probably from the alcohol still digesting, I thought. Or maybe I was still drunk. I touched my forehead, as if being drunk were the same as having a fever and thus diagnosable.

I suddenly felt perilously close to tears, but I knew it would only make my headache worse. I pulled my hair back into a tight ponytail, ignoring Liam behind me getting dressed. My heart pounded so hard that I felt light-headed.

“You can look now. I’m decent,” he said.

I turned, noting that, despite the fact that he was dressed, he did not look decent. At all. His collared shirt stretched across his chest, accentuating the width of his shoulders, while he’d rolled the sleeves up his arms to showcase his muscular forearms. He radiated a combination of masculinity and blatant confidence that edged into arrogance.

I didn’t know what to do with men like him. David had never radiated anything but safety. Consistency.

Boredom, my mind whispered.

“What happened last night?” I whispered.

Liam lifted a dark eyebrow and sat down on the edge of the still disheveled bed. “You really don’t remember?” Once again, his accent made my toes curl into the plush hotel room carpet. He’d told me where he was from—hadn’t he?

God, how much tequila had I drunk? I didn’t do things like this for a reason. I was the friend who drove drunk friends home.

“I really don’t remember,” I said in exasperation. “I mean, it’s coming back, but…” I was too afraid to ask if we’d slept together.

“You look like you’re about to vomit. Is it me or is it the hangover?”

I held up my left hand. “Do you know what this is?”

“Is this a trick question?”

I pointed to the plastic ring. “What. Is. This?”

“A ring, clearly.”

He was toying with me, the jerk.

“Why am I wearing it?” I tried again.

“Why the bloody hell would I know that?”

Once again I tried to place his accent—it sounded American at times, but then he’d roll his r’s, as if he were savoring the consonants with his tongue.

Based on his exasperation, he didn’t know what had happened last night any more than I did.

“Well, I’m wearing a ring on my left hand. That leads me to think…”

Liam turned pale right as the jangled pieces of memories in my brain began to assemble themselves.

Oh God. Oh God, no, no, we couldn’t have done that.

Memories once again flashed across my eyes. Hands gripping me as I was pressed against a brick wall outside. The sound of slot machines, and Liam yelling when he won a round of blackjack.

White flowers that had been abandoned somewhere between the chapel and the hotel after our wedding ceremony.

Wedding. Ceremony. The ring on my finger. Wedding night.

No, no, no, no.

I trembled. I wondered if I was going to swoon at Liam’s feet, and I’d never fainted in my entire life.

“Did we—?” My voice croaked. I couldn’t say the words, because then it would make them real.

Liam looked like he might faint, too, which would’ve been funny if not for the circumstances. He then swore in a language I didn’t recognize. And then he went to my bag—the one filled with various sex toys—and pulled out a piece of paper. He swore again.

“What? What is that?” I said.

He handed it to me. It was a marriage license, and the two signatures at the bottom?

Marigold Wright and Liam Gallagher.

“Oh my God. We’re married?” The marriage license fluttered to the floor.

“Seems so. Christ.” Liam began to pace.

Right then, my foot hit the bag of sex toys, setting off the vibrator. Its buzzing sound filled the room like an alarm. Danger, danger, you married a man you don’t even know!

I rubbed my temples. Despite the ibuprofen I’d taken, my headache threatened to return in full force after this revelation.

“Can you just tell me what happened last night? After we got married? Because I can’t remember if we slept together or not. That’s the one piece that’s a blur.”

“Now I’m offended,” said Liam, stopping to stare at me. “That my brand-new wife can’t even remember if she slept with me last night.”

“So we didn’t have sex?”

Liam snorted. “You’d remember. I’d make sure of it. Women never forget when I’ve fucked them.”

I would’ve laughed at that outlandish statement, except Liam seemed completely serious. And I had a feeling he wasn’t boasting, either.

All of these revelations felt like someone launching a dead, smelly fish at my face. Kind of like the fish they throw at Pike Place Market in Seattle, except the fish were slimy, old, and smelled like garbage and intense regret.

Liam was my fish. He was my stinky, disgusting, rotting fish who also happened to be sinfully handsome and had a huge, delightful cock.

Now my mind was imagining actual fish with actual dicks, and my gorge rose. Penises and fish just did not mix.

Liam’s face creased. “You okay?”

I was going to—I didn’t know. Puke, cry, laugh. Could you do all three at once? Was there a word for that?

Under the dictionary, there should be a word for what I’d done last night. Synonyms would include: idiot, moron, and imbecile. Antonyms would include: Mari Wright up until she got drunk last night and married a stranger.

Liam glanced at his watch, sighing. “Whatever the fuck happened last night, we can’t talk about it now. We need to get going.”

At my obvious confusion, he said almost blithely, “Isn’t there a wedding we’re supposed to attend? If I do recall, you’re the maid of honor.”

Now I was really going to vomit. Jenna and Sam’s wedding was today. And if I didn’t leave this room now, I’d be late to get my hair done for their evening ceremony.

Oh, and now I remembered: Liam was Sam’s best man, and I was walking with him down the aisle.

Great, just great.

I pointed a finger in Liam’s direction. “Don’t say a word about this to anyone. You got that? Because if you do, I’ll murder you. After the wedding is over, we’ll figure out how to make this right. Okay?”

“You think I wanted this any more than you?” He helped me off the floor, and his touch on my arm was electric. “That I marry random women in Vegas just for fun?”

“I don’t know you, so maybe you do it all the time.”

His grip was firm, his hands warm, and gazing into his eyes, the spark I’d felt two days ago returned. Liam seemed to sense it, too, because he caressed my cheek with surprisingly gentle fingers. He then touched the hickeys dotting my neck.

“Now I do remember making these,” he said ruefully.

I couldn’t do this. I pushed his arm away, which was pointless because he was made of either bricks or marble and it did a grand total of nothing.

My stomach lurched right then. I ran to the bathroom, slammed the door closed, and puked my guts up until I was pretty sure I’d vomited up at least one internal organ in the process.

It was just too bad I couldn’t puke Liam Gallagher—my husband—from my stomach.