I don’t know why I’m suddenly feeling giddy with happiness. It’s crazy to feel this way, but I kind of want to smile and kiss the crazy jerk. David Tennant is right along with me, hanging out in the back of my head, giving me a thumbs up.
“Allons-y, darling! It’s perfect,” he calls, twirling his sonic screwdriver. I don’t mean that in the dirty way at all. Mostly.
I tilt my head up to Nate, my lips parting. “Maybe . . . ” I say.
“Hold on. Look at this.” His eyes light up, and he passes the paper to me. I study the wedding license, not quite sure what the hell he’s talking about.
State of Nevada, Elvis, it all seems perfectly legal. And then my eyes fall onto the name written beside Bride. It looked so natural at first, I didn’t even question it. But of course.
It’s not my name. It’s Lola Sinclair’s name. And right underneath, beside Groom . . . .
“Peyton Manning?” I say, looking up at Nate in bewilderment. He nods.
“The man is a fucking god. You can’t blame me for wanting to be him for one drunken night, even in a Las Vegas wedding chapel.” He says it all with an air of reverence.
“Our chapel is one of the finest in the city,” Connie says, a lit cigarette now clamped between her teeth. She blows a smoke ring, then gets a can of Febreze from under the counter and disinfects the air.
Nate and I take a step away.
“What does this mean?” I ask him, heart hammering. He grins.
“It means this isn’t legally binding. Lola Sinclair doesn’t exist, and I’m obviously not Manning. We don’t have to worry.” He folds the license up, creating a perfect, crisp fold in the center. Exactly symmetrical. “We’re free.”
And that’s exactly how he sees it. He breathes such a sigh of relief, it’s almost hard not to take it as an insult. Strike that: it’s pretty impossible not to take it as an insult.
“Well, glad you don’t have to burden yourself with the divorce process,” I say, stepping backward.
He lets me go; he’s still too caught up in the bliss of not being married to a stranger. And hell, can I really give him shit about that? I don’t think so.
“Come on. We both would’ve been adults about it,” he says, finally looking at me with an expression that suggests being eternally bound to someone after a night of hot sex isn’t the best way to go about things.
Christ, I really was thinking this through like one of my books, wasn’t I? Two strangers wind up in bed together after a night of pounding back shots and discussing heartbreak. They accidentally marry, have a huge breakup near the end, and then realize they’re madly in love when one of them is just boarding a plane for Austria. Then the groom races along the runway, the airport police tailing him in their car, as he tries to get to the plane window as it’s taxiing and about to take off.
In my novel’s version, the hero also doesn’t have a shirt on, but that’s more for aesthetic purposes.
Point is, I’ve been acting like this’ll end in some magical, embracing moment between the two of us, as we resolve to live like a couple of crazy people and not worry about things like jobs, living in different states, friends, compatibility, you know. All that boring adult stuff.
Maybe I have been too caught up in my work. Maybe it’d be good for me to take a step back and remember that in real life, you don’t find your soul mate in a strip club, waking up with nothing more than a tattoo and some blurry memories.
“You’re right. We would’ve been adults.” I hold out my hand. “So, partner. Crazy Vegas adventure. At least we get to check that off the bucket list, right?”
Nate blinks; he looks like he doesn’t quite get it. But he nods slowly, shaking with me.
“Yeah. I, uh, would invite you back to the room if you want. But I’ve got the wedding in a few hours. Besides, you’re probably just relieved how this all turned out.”
He doesn’t even make it a question. My gut tightens at his words, but I don’t betray my fabulous calm. So fabulous. Much calm. Wow.
“I’ve got to get going anyway. The conference is still in swing. I haven’t done as much mingling as I should have,” I say. We walk out the doors, back into the oppressive Vegas heat.
Oh man. Sweat starts trickling down my back again, instantly.
“I know you love to mingle. Mingling’s your bread and butter,” he says, maybe a little louder than he has to. I can tell the relief is just radiating off of him.
“Bread and butter’s okay, I guess. I prefer champagne and Hostess cupcakes. You know. Both classy and common,” I say, smacking him on the shoulder. I actually smack him.
He just nods, dialing up a cab. While he’s doing that, another taxi happens to come along, and I hail it.
“Want a ride back?” I ask, hoping that he’ll get inside, and we’ll have a quiet conversation, and—
“Thanks. I think I have to get in touch with the guys. They’re probably out looking for me,” he replies.
Right. He does not want to have much more to do with me now that our insane sex-having, bird-napping adventure is over. I get into the car and smile.