He’s not the only one, especially since I can’t even remember anything past leaving the strip club together. “Don’t think there’s much to talk about,” I answer, scanning the floor for my clutch and shoes so I can get out like I should have hours ago.
“We…didn’t have sex, right?” he asks, somehow evenmoreawkward this time.
“Right,” I confirm.
Couldn’t tell him why, though, and it seems like he can’t tell me either, but that’s fine. I don’t need to dwell on any of this, even if my blood flows a little hotter at the memory of his fingers sinking into me, wishing I could have had more. But that’s not happening now that the time and opportunity—and liquid courage—have come and gone.
He nods. “Okay. I—Okay.”
I’ll leave him to process however he needs to because that isnotmy problem. The only thing I need to worry about is where the hell my phone is. I’m sure I have a million missed calls and texts, and I’m betting 90 percent of them are from Mika. As far as I know, I didn’t make good on my promise to FaceTime her last night, so I won’t be surprised if she thinks I’m dead in a ditch.
My back is to Thomas as I search the bedroom, picking up the duvet and moving take-out boxes, even squatting down topeer under the bed. It isn’t until he inhales sharply that I look over, finding him frowning at his phone as he scrolls.
“I think I know why you had a doughnut on your finger.”
I stand and slowly turn toward him, trying to keep the world from spinning. “You do?”
“Yeah.” He holds up his phone for me to look at, expression shifting to something unreadable. “Apparently, I proposed to you with it.”
I blink, digesting his words, but they still don’t make sense even after a few beats. “Excuse me?”
He exhaustedly motions me closer. I have to squint at the screen once I’m standing in front of him to make out the blurry figures in the photo he’s showing me, but…he wasn’t kidding. There I am, proudly displaying the chocolate-iced doughnut on my left hand while Thomas beams up at me from down on one knee. We’re both clearly shit-faced, and funnily enough, I look happier there than I did in any of my actual engagement photos.
I swallow hard, debating whether I should be freaked out that I don’t remember any of this happening or amused since it’s harmless enough.
“I know I’m a catch, but I didn’t think you’d fall in love with me that quickly,” I joke, trying to push down my rapidly growing discomfort. But this is as good a time as any to reestablish what this encounter was—or at least was meant to be. “I’m flattered, but I think we’re better off leaving this as a one-night thing.”
Fun as our conversations were—and as good as he is with his hands—I’m not in a position to get wrapped up in anything. I can’t imagine he has time for it either as a professional athlete.
Thomas nods, turning his phone back around and swiping across the screen. “Absolutely, I know we both have—hmm.”
I freeze, not liking thathmm. “What was that for?”
His parliament smile makes its first appearance this morning. “Well,” he says lightly before clearing his throat and glancing back up at me. Something akin to panic is in his eyes. “It seems that last night we mutually decided we wantedforeverinstead of one night.”
I’m standing so still that I’m not even breathing. “I’m going to need you to explain, Thomas.”
Again, he turns his phone screen to me, and this time I grab it out of his hands. I have to see this up close to make sure his concern isn’t misplaced. But the longer I stare, the less what I’m looking at makes sense.
“We got married,” I hear myself say, even though I don’t feel my lips form the words. “By Black Elvis.”
“Yes.” Thomas confirms what I didn’t know was my worst fear, but it’s now at the top of theShit That Scares Stellalist. “It would appear we did.”
I keep staring at the snapshot of us standing at the front of a chapel, grinning at each other as we hold hands. A dark-skinned man in an Elvis costume—complete with a swoopy wig and sunglasses—next to us with a Bible in one hand and a guitar in the other.
My stomach is churning dangerously again. “This…this can’t be real,” I mumble, even though, logically, I understand this wasn’t faked. “It’s gotta be some sort of AI trash.”
I swipe to the next photo, then the next, and the next. It’s more of Thomas and me at the altar, us with our lips pressed together, me joyously waving a bouquet of flowers in the air. It’s the same bouquet that’s wilting on the bed.
Hand shaking, I tap on the screen, bringing up the details of the latest photo. According to the time stamp, it was taken fifteen minutes past midnight. Thomas and I left the strip clubjust after ten, which means there are at least two hours of mayhem unaccounted for between then and this photo being taken.
I force myself to stop and breathe, warding off the anxiety that’s threatening to throw me into a full fetal-position panic attack.
“Okay, so it’s real,” I finally say, surprised by how level my voice sounds. “And it’s not great. But it’s not a legal marriage.”
The relief that slides across Thomas’s face is almost comical, but neither of us would dare laugh right now. “Are you sure?” he presses.
I nod as I hand his phone back. “Extremely. Don’t forget that I’ve already been through this whole song and dance. For a marriage to be legal and valid, you have to get a marriage license before the ceremony. And considering we did thiswaypast the working hours of any government agency that would issue a license, we definitely didn’t get one.”
