Waking up with a hangover is the worst. And as soon as consciousness filters in, I know I drank too much last night.
My head is pounding. My tongue is dry. My stomach is churning.
I’m not just hungover. This feels like a step away from death.
When I roll over, I’m expecting white sheets.
Instead, all I see is blonde hair.
This isn’t the first time I’ve woken up in bed with a woman, but it’s one of a few times. My romantic relationships can be boiled down to one word: short.
And lately, all of my sexual encounters have been unattached and uncomplicated. Where numbers aren’t exchanged and preferably names aren’t either. When I don’t wake up in the same bed as a stranger. No awkward morning of picking crumpled clothes off the floor and exchanging forced small talk.
Based on how hungover I am, I’m not surprised I was drunk enough not to ask her to leave. If I asked for her name, I can’t remember it. I rub my right temple in an unsuccessful attempt to ease the pounding headache. I don’t want to move but am too uncomfortable to fall back asleep.
As I’m deliberating that quandary, the blonde beside me stirs. She rolls on her side, facing me. Her face is still partially obscured by her hair, but I see her eyes scrunch shut like she’s trying to chase sleep.
Our legs brush beneath the covers, the touch of her soft, bare skin instantly affecting me. Regardless of how much I had to drink last night—and how much is still lingering in my system—I’m completely capable of getting hard.
I shift onto my back, staring up at the plaster ceiling. My brain feels like sludge, soggy and uncooperative. This is my hotel room. I have no idea who the woman next to me is or what happened between us last night.
I try to recall yesterday. I remember leaving the office and driving to the airport to come to Vegas. After that, it’s disorganized flashes. Talking to Garrett. Eating steak. Women on swings. Flashes that slip away like water in cupped hands whenever I try to expand my memory.
What the fuck did you do?
I’m distracted by a tug. The sheet slips off my chest, as the woman beside me sits up. She yawns, rubbing her eyes and then tucking her hair behind one ear. The white sheet pools around her waist, offering a spectacular view I’m in no position to resist. Literally. Looking over, lying down while she’s sitting, all I can see are round, perky tits.
My dick reacts, stiffening further. As annoyed as I am with myself for getting so drunk, I can’t recall how I ended up here, I’m also applauding him. Because I’ve never had a specific type when it comes to women, but she’s somehow exactly what I’d look for.
She glances over at me and freezes, appearing just as shocked to be in bed with me as I was to look over and see her. I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.
The blonde woman clears her throat, sweeping her blonde hair over one shoulder. “My eyes are up here.’
I focus on her blue irises and say the first thing that pops into my head. “Your boobs are closer.”
She surprises me by laughing. Since she hasn’t lifted the sheet yet, I watch her tits bounce with the movement. There’s something oddly mesmerizing about it. I’m still drunk, obviously. She looks beautiful, even with flecks of mascara below her eyes and blonde hair in a wild tangle.
Then she’s suddenly a whirl of movement, tripping over the hem of the comforter that’s haphazardly hanging off her side of the bed. “Shit!”
“What’s wrong?” I sit up, wincing when the movement rachets the pounding in my head up to a whole new level.
“I was supposed to be at the airport ten minutes ago,” she replies, shimmying into a wrinkled navy dress that looks vaguely familiar. She picks up her phone and frowns at it. “Dammit. Dead.”
I watch as she rushes over toward the couch, grabbing the back for balance as she slips into her heels.
“Airport?” I ask, my voice a sleepy rasp.
She glances over. “I’m flying back to LA this morning.”
“Oh.” I’m weirdly…disappointed by that revelation.
“Are you still drunk?”
“Probably. I feel like roadkill. How much did I drink last night?”
“I don’t know. A lot?”
I groan, dropping my hands in my palms and massaging my forehead. A few seconds later, I hear the tap of heels against hardwood.
“Here.” Something damp and cold brushes my right arm.
I raise my head to find her holding a chilled water from the minifridge out to me. “Thanks.”
She shrugs. “You’re the one paying for it.”
A smirk tilts her lips upward. I trace the curve with my eyes, then focus on the rest of her features.
Hannah, I suddenly remember. Her name is Hannah.
“I’ve gotta head—”
She abruptly stops talking, grabbing a piece of paper off the bedside table and staring at it.
“What?”
No response.
“Hannah? What is it?”
She stumbles back a few steps, until her back collides with the wall.
I clamber out of bed, urgency hastening my movements. Naked with no sign of my clothes, I yank the white sheet off the bed and wrap it around my waist.
“Your last name is Kensington?”
I freeze, registering the tone of the question.
Surprise about my last name isn’t anything new from a woman. But the scorn—the horror—in Hannah’s voice is new. My back is to her, so I can’t see Hannah’s expression to tell if I’m reading that right or my headache is warping it.
“Yes.”
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Hannah is no longer standing. She’s sliding down the wall and sitting on the floor, her long legs stretched out and exposed as her dress rides up her thighs. “This cannot be happening.”
“You know, most women are excited when they find out my family is worth billions,” I say, taking a few hesitant steps forward.
And it’s never a reaction I’ve enjoyed. It always makes me feel cheap. But I would rather Hannah was looking at me with dollar signs in her eyes than dread.
“Or they ask me if I can get them rouge clothes.”
Hannah closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the wall. “Scarlett Kensington would rather set one of her designs on fire than see me wear it.”
“I…”
Weird response, but it explains some of her reaction. She and Scarlett have a past? Maybe they went to school together?
“You know Scarlett?”
Hannah’s head shakes, her eyes still closed. “Crew.”
His name drops between us like a lead weight.
“Oh.”
I should be less shocked than I am.
Hannah is stunning and Crew spent plenty of nights out partying before he got married. I met many of the women he spent time with, either when they’d sneak out of his room in Kensington Manor back when we both lived there, or at society events. Some of them would flirt with me, especially when it was generally assumed I’d be the next CEO.
None of them sparked the slightest interest, most of them coming off as meek or manipulative.
I never expected I would be interested in a woman Crew has history with. And it bothers me, honestly, knowing that she’s been with him. It feels like another thing Crew has taken away from me. Which is ridiculous; I barely know Hannah.
I clear my throat in an attempt to break the long silence. “How did you meet him?”
Hannah plays with the edge of the paper she’s still holding. I can’t tell what’s written on it from this angle. Maybe it’s a receipt? Or a bill from the hotel? Something with my full name on it.
“At a bar, in New York. The sports agency has an office there, and I was in the city a fair amount for work. Some girl spilled her drink on me, he brought me napkins.” She shifts, uncomfortable in a way I doubt has anything to do with the hardwood floor. “It went on for a few months. Random nights, here and there. And then, I heard he got married. He’d mentioned Scarlett, but made it sound like an arrangement.”
“I think that’s all he thought it’d be, at first.”
Hannah nods. “I was in a bad place. Mostly about stuff that had nothing to do with Crew, but that was an easy target. I said some shit to him—and to Scarlett.”
I take a seat beside her on the floor. “Were you in love with him?” A question that I have no right to ask but one that’s been stuck in my head since she said his name.
She shakes her head, and the relief is intense. Immediate. Inexplicable. “No. I felt stuck. In my job. In other relationships. Crew was an escape from all that. Something different and exciting. I hated losing that distraction, way more than I hated losing him.”
“He’ll never know about this, if that’s what you’re worried about. Crew and I don’t have that kind of relationship.”
Hannah’s lips purse, none of the anxiety leaving her expression. That spikes mine. “Do you have any regrets, Oliver?”
My throat feels thick. “Yeah. A lot of them, actually.”
“You can add this to the list.” Her hand lifts, holding the piece of paper out to me.
I take it, glancing at her questioningly. Her eyes close again. I can’t figure out her behavior. She doesn’t strike me as someone who tends to be overly dramatic.
But I know hardly anything about her. Maybe she is, and it just wasn’t obvious last night.
I glance down.
My stomach falls the fifty or so stories we’re suspended in the air.
I barely know anything about Hannah, except she used to have sex with my brother and that, according to the state of Nevada, she’s my wife.
For a few seconds, it feels like everything around me is frozen. There’s a part of my brain that’s chanting fuck, fuck, fuck on repeat. Another section that’s desperately flipping through a list of everyone I know who could help this go away. And the rest of me is too stunned by the realization I got married in Vegas to so much as twitch.
I drop the paper and blink at it. My eyes feel gritty from sleep deprivation and too much alcohol. “How the fuck—is this real?”
Hannah sighs. “I’ve never seen a marriage certificate before. But it looks legit to me.”
I exhale, shakily. “I…”
Honestly, I’m at a complete loss for what to say. Marriage has never struck me as an appealing prospect. It was always a possible inevitability, outside of my control.
Even drunk, I can’t believe the thought crossed my mind. More than crossed it, obviously, according to the paper I’m holding. Just a simple, unassuming sheet that made me a husband.
What.
The.
Fuck.
“We got married.”
“Apparently. I thought Fuck no summed up your thoughts about marriage.”
“It does. You must be awfully convincing.”
I can’t believe I’m joking about this. I rarely joke about anything.
“Aside from a brief phase in fourth grade when I told complete strangers I was going to have my wedding in the same church as my parents, I’ve never wanted to get married,” Hannah informs me. “So I doubt I was very convincing.”
“I never even had a brief phase.”
“Weren’t you going to marry Scarlett?”
When I don’t answer, she glances over.
“Drunk New Yorkers are chatty. Especially about Kensingtons.”
“My dad decides a lot more than my travel schedule,” I reply.
She nods.
“How much of last night do you remember?”
“After the High Roller, not much.”
“We went on the High Roller?”
Hannah studies me. “How much do you remember?”
“Not much.” I clear my throat, glancing at the clothes scattered on the floor and then back at her. “Did we have sex?”
“I don’t think so.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Based on what?”
“Based on the size of your dick. There would be… aftereffects. I’m not sore.”
I smile as soon as she says aftereffects. “You looked.”
“You stared at my boobs for several minutes, so I think we’re even.”
“They’re great boobs.”
“Thanks. I grew them myself.”
If anyone had told me I’d be on the floor laughing after discovering I’d married a stranger who’s been with my brother, my response would have been, You’re insane. But here I am, doing exactly that.
Hannah stands. “I have to go, or I’m going to miss my flight.”
I stand too, wincing when my head protests the movement. “You can’t leave. We have to—”
“I’m well aware we’re in a fucking mess, Oliver,” she says, picking her phone up. “But I have to go. I have to be back in LA by tonight. We’ll both need to hire attorneys and figure out how to get divorced or an annulment or just light that thing on fire and pretend this never happened.”
“Fine.” She’s right. There’s nothing we can do to fix this imminently. “Give me your number.”
Hannah rubs a palm across her face. “I don’t know it.”
“What? How do you not know your phone number?”
“I just got a new phone, and the company screwed it up and gave me a new number too and I suck at memorizing…” She exhales. “It doesn’t matter. Just give me your number and I’ll call you.”
I hold a hand out for her phone, and she waves the black screen in my face. “My phone is dead. Write your number on something.” I glance at the piece of paper I’m still holding. “You can’t write your number on that!”
“I don’t have anything else!” There’s a pen with the hotel logo on the desk next to the couch, but no pad of paper.
I find my pants on the floor and pull my wallet out, hoping to find a receipt.
A playing card advertising a magician falls out. As soon as I see it flutter to the floor, I remember attending the show last night. Hopefully the rest of my memories aren’t far behind. I hate being caught off guard, and that’s basically all that’s happened this morning.
I grab the playing card and scribble my number on it, then hold it out to Hannah. “Seriously?” she asks.
“It’s that or the marriage certificate.”
She rolls her eyes and takes the card. “I’ll call you on Monday.”
“Okay.” I feel awkward all of a sudden. Waking up with a woman is a strange experience in itself. Discovering I’m also legally linked to her isn’t simplifying anything.
I go to stick my hands in my pockets and discover I’m still wearing a sheet. So much for a casual pose.
Hannah bites her bottom lip. Suddenly, I remember kissing her beneath a palm tree. Desire heats my body, and I wish she wasn’t leaving for reasons entirely unrelated to our surprise marriage.
“Fly safe.”
“Yeah, thanks.” She waves the card at me. “I’ll call you.”
I nod.
With one final, unsure smile, Hannah walks out.
I don’t move, long after the door has clicked shut. I’m still in a state of shock. Still hungover and tired. Still…married.
Eventually, I toss the white sheet back on the bed and head into the bathroom. Under the pounding spray of hot water, I try to think rationally.
But my mind is too busy spinning in answerless circles. Now that Hannah is gone and I’m alone in my room, I can almost fool myself into thinking it was all just a dream. Part fantasy, part nightmare.
But as soon as I’m back in the room getting dressed, the piece of paper is just sitting there, taunting me.
I don’t even know how you get married in Las Vegas. Did my drunk self really figure it out? If I had time, I’d go chapel to chapel until I figured out where this took place and could demand some concrete answers.
There’s no time, though. I’m due downstairs in ten minutes for the start of day two of Garrett’s bachelor party.
The last thing I want is for anyone here to find out what happened last night. Based on nothing but the Kensington net worth, I’m considered the most eligible bachelor in the country. Any tabloid would leap on the story, and Garrett is the only person here I would trust not to sell it.
I read articles about alcohol use and memory on my phone in between getting dressed. According to one study, heavy drinking can affect the transfer of memories between short- and long-term storage in the hippocampus. Still, I can’t figure out how I was cognizant enough to get married but drunk enough to forget the entire experience.
Maybe my brain is repressing it in an attempt to pretend it didn’t happen.
Unfortunately, life isn’t that easy to edit.
There’s a reason people view marriage as a massive commitment. That they think long and hard about whether to take that step and when and with whom.
And I just…went for it.
I finish getting dressed and leave the hotel room, resolving to push the avalanche of issues away until I have the time and wherewithal to deal with them. I sip the water Hannah handed me as I walk down the carpeted hallway, and then press the Down arrow when I reach the elevator.
The doors open a few seconds later, revealing a familiar face. “Oliver!”
I blink a few times, her cheerfulness more grating this morning than it was on the plane yesterday. Anything I was stressed about then seems mild in comparison to my current predicament. “Good morning, Marie.”
Marie beams as I step inside the elevator with her. “You remembered.”
“I’m good with names.” I force myself to return her smile as the doors glide shut.
“You’re staying here?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Uh, no. Just visiting.”
I glance over, belatedly noticing her wrinkled dress and smudged makeup. “Are you okay?”
“I’m great. Do I not look great?”
I don’t know how to respond to that. “You do. Just a little…rumpled.”
Marie giggles, then leans against the wall. “I had a great night.”
I nod. “Good.”
The elevator chimes, then the doors slide open, revealing the lobby. Marie walks out first, glancing back and winking at me. “Enjoy the rest of your trip, Oliver.”
“You too,” I call back.
I continue into the hotel’s dining area, spotting Garrett immediately. He’s slumped over a mug of coffee at a table in the center of the room, looking about how I feel.
When the chair legs scrape the floor and announce my arrival he leans back, rubbing at both eyes with the palm of his hand. “Hey, man.”
“Hey.”
Garrett looks me up and down. “How was the rest of your night?”
“Uh, fine. Yours?”
“Still processing it, honestly.” I nod, because boy do I get that. Garrett swallows some coffee, then glances at me. “Sorry about unloading on you last night.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m always happy to listen.”
He sips more coffee. “I think this weekend was just what I needed. Evened things out, so to speak.”
“You slept with her?”
“Yeah.” Garrett exhales. “I needed to prove I could, I guess. And part of me feels guilty, but at least I got some good sex out of it. Sienna and I haven’t since… I forgot what fucking someone new was like.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, I feel better. I think she stole my watch though, because I can’t find it. At least Sienna’s not with me for the money. Her family has plenty, and we have an ironclad prenup.”
My hand freezes halfway to my water bottle. The rest of the guys are beginning to join us, chairs scraping on both sides, most of them wearing sunglasses and pained expressions.
I return the greetings aimed my way on autopilot.
My entire life, I’ve been wary of anyone wanting me for my money. I saw the rounds of negotiations between my father and Hanson Ellsworth as the details of Crew and Scarlett’s engagement were hammered out. The gossip rags reported extensively on how little Candace received after her marriage with my father ended, and how, of course, Arthur Kensington protected his assets. Of course, little to a Kensington is a lot to anyone else. Last I knew, Candace was living in France, set up for life.
In my world, prenups are more important than how many carats the ring is. The reality is, most marriages end. It’s smart and responsible to prepare for that outcome, no matter what.
Smart and responsible are two adjectives most people would use to describe me. Also rich. I’m very, very rich.
And what did I do?
I got married without a prenup.
