Her.
She wasn’t just a hookup. She wasit—the whole damn package. She was the perfect combination of sassy and snarky. She wasn’t pretentious. She was down-to-earth.
She was beautiful. Her smoky eyes looked at me like I was the only man in the world. And she gave herself to me. It was raw lust and sin, and I can’t wait to experience it again.
Because it was a passion I’d never known. She met each caress, and she even moaned my name. I roared when I came.
And it went on all night long.
I swing my legs over the bed and plant them firmly on the floor, and my head swims.
Yes, tequila made our clothes come off. I feel like a country song. I don’t know how much I drank, except it was too much.
I’m sure many bad decisions have transpired while under the influence of the deadly clear liquid. The only thing I remember clearly is the look in her eyes when she said her name.
Kate.
Except…That might not even be her real name. She said she was a singer, but I’ve never heard of her. I’m not into country music, either, so perhaps that explains it.
I try to piece together clues like I’m in some dumb rom-com with a missing girl with too much heart, minus the tiny dog.
A new sequel to The Hangover. And it seems like it’s complete, as I’m alone in the honeymoon suite.
I glance at the nightstand. And there is my first clue.
A receipt.
Harry Winston’s Jewelry, Las Vegas.
One engagement ring. Paid in full.
My name. No hers.
The second clue next to it is a folded piece of paper, still slightly sticky with champagne.
“You Light Up My Life Wedding Chapel” — Official Marriage Certificate.
Witnessed by Elvis #4 and someone named Tina with a pink wig.
Bride: Heavenleigh.
What the fuck? I was with Kate last night.
She said she was a singer, maybe that’s her stage name.
Jesus Christ. I married a woman named Heavenleigh—one name.
Except she’s not her, it can’t be. It must be the name she uses when she’s on stage — or at least that’s what Ihope, because if I were legally married to someone named Heavenleigh, I’m going to have to fight God and the state of Nevada.
There’s a Polaroid tucked underneath.
It’s us.
I’m holding her — literally off the ground, with a full lift — laughing like I just won the Cupagain. She’s kissing my cheek, her ring is flashing, her veil is crooked, and her eyes are closed like she’s replaying an epic orgasm.
We look stupid. And so goddamn happy.
I smile. Then panic.
