Page 12 of Hitched to My Enemy
She bolted upright, clutching silk sheets to her chest, scanning my bedroom like she'd woken in enemy territory. "Tell me this is a nightmare."
I raised my left hand. The metallic ring glinted accusingly.
Her face drained of color as she stared at her own matching band. Then she did something I'd never seen the unflappable Investigator Clarke do in all our encounters.
She screamed.
Not a delicate gasp or ladylike shriek. A full-throated, lung-emptying wail of absolute horror that probably rattled windows three floors down.
"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK DID WE DO?"
"Well," I said, biting back laughter because apparently my response to catastrophe was dark humor, "I believe the technical term is 'got hitched.' Congratulations, Mrs. Hardwick."
Her eye twitched. "Mrs. what now?"
"Don't tell me you don't remember Elvis asking if you'd take me to be your lawfully wedded husband? You said 'Hell yes' with enough enthusiasm to raise the dead. Quite touching, really."
"I did not say 'Hell yes!'" But even as she protested, recognition dawned across her features. "Oh God. I did, didn't I?"
"Right after asking if Vegas marriages came with a money-back guarantee."
She covered her face with both hands. "This isn't happening. This is some rare alcohol-induced psychotic break. Any minute now I'm going to wake up in my own bed with nothing worse than a hangover and vague memories of terrible pizza."
"Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but—"
"Don't. Call. Me. Sweetheart." Each word was delivered with surgical precision. "We are not married. We are accidentally licensed for marriage. There's a difference."
"Tell that to the State of Nevada. And the extremely legal document we both signed with surprisingly steady hands for people who could barely walk straight."
More memories surfaced in vivid, mortifying detail. How she'd insisted on reading the entire marriage license before signing. How I'd twirled her around the chapel afterward while she laughed like we'd won the lottery instead of signing our professional death warrants. How we'd stumbled back to the Jade Petal at three in the morning, her shoes in my hand and my tie around her neck.
And the kiss. Jesus Christ, the kiss outside my penthouse door that had tasted like whiskey and reckless decisions.
"How much do you remember?" I asked.
"Too much." Her voice was muffled behind her hands. "The chapel. That Elvis impersonator who kept calling you 'stud muffin.' You spinning me around like we were starring in some romantic movie instead of destroying our careers." She peekedat me through her fingers. "The part where I apparently decided I was the kind of person who makes life-altering decisions based on neon signs and liquid courage."
"In your defense, you did ask practical questions. Like whether Nevada marriages came with a cooling-off period and if we could get bulk pricing if we divorced within 48 hours."
"Please tell me you're making that up."
"Scout's honor. You also made Elvis promise the ceremony would be 'extra tacky' because, and I quote, 'If I'm going to ruin my life, it's going to be memorably ridiculous.'"
"Oh God." She flopped back onto the pillows. "I'm going to have to resign. Not just from this case—from everything. I'll have to move to Alaska and become a wilderness guide."
"Alaska's loss would be Nevada's gain. You'd make a terrible wilderness guide anyway. Too much hairspray."
She shot up again, glaring with enough heat to melt steel. "Are you actually critiquing my hair care routine while we're in the middle of the biggest catastrophe of both our lives?"
"Just saying, the wilderness doesn't appreciate good grooming the way Vegas does. And you do have spectacular hair." I couldn't help myself—even in crisis, she was magnificent when angry. "Especially when it's spread across my pillow."
Her cheeks flushed. "You're impossible."
"Impossibly charming? Impossibly handsome? Impossibly good at making questionable life choices? You'll have to be more specific, wife."
"Stop calling me that!" But she was fighting a smile now, which was somehow worse than her panic. A smiling Harlow Clarke was dangerous to my sanity.
My phone erupted in buzzing. Bryce's name flashed insistently.
