“Good wingman,” Phoenix chimes, reaching down to pat Dracula’s back. “Thanks for the assist, little dude.”
And just like that, in a dingy Vegas hotel room, tangled up with my husband and our ridiculous cat, I’ve never felt more at home.
“Love you, husband,” I murmur.
Phoenix presses a tender kiss to my temple.
“Love you more, wife,” he replies.
And with our cat nestled firmly between us, we fall asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms.
We’ll deal with today’s fallout tomorrow.
Chapter Twenty-Two
PHOENIX
The Next Morning
The soft weight of Clover’s head on my chest, her brown hair spilled across my skin like silk, is how I wake. For a moment, I simply lie here, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with the lingering traces of last night—champagne, desert air, and something that’s purely her.
My wife.
Jesus Christ, that’s going to take some getting used to.
The makeshift cactus ring catches the morning light streaming through the cheap hotel blinds, and I can’t help but smile.
We actually did it.
We got married by Elvis in a fucking Vegas chapel, and somehow it doesn’t feel crazy.
It feels…
…right.
Clover shifts against me, her breathing still deep and even. She’s beautiful like this, peaceful and unguarded, her face soft with sleep. I could watch her for hours, memorizing every freckle and curve of her lips. But then her phone starts ringing, shrill and insistent on the nightstand. I grimace at the noise, the sound instantly hurting my already pounding head.
Clover groans, burying her face deeper into my chest. “Make it stop,” she mumbles, her voice thick with sleep and what I’m guessing is one hell of a hangover.
But the damn cell keeps ringing.
“Clover,” I say softly, running my hand through her hair. “Baby, your phone.”
“Don’t care,” she mutters. “The world can wait. I feel like shit.”
The ringing stops for about five seconds, then starts again.
So, whoever is calling isn’t giving up.
“Fuck,” she groans, finally lifting her head. Her hair is a beautiful disaster, sticking up in every direction, and her makeup is smudged under her eyes.
She’s never looked more gorgeous.
Clover reaches for the phone, squinting at the screen. “It’s Rhyan,” she mumbles, her voice still rough. “At… oh God, it’s seven in the morning. Why is she calling me at seven in the morning?”
The phone keeps ringing.
“Answer it,” I urge. “She’ll just keep calling.”
