“We’re not married yet,” he reminded her. “If you want to talk stats, I’d say there’s a ninety-five percent chance you’ll lose your nerve before this deal is actually done.”
“No way,” she swore.
“We’ll see.”
“I’ve never been on a private jet before.” Brighton surveyed the gray leather upholstery, the polished walnut wall panels, the luxurious cashmere throws, the flat-screen TV. “This is crazy. Who the hell are you that you have your own jet?”
“It’s not mine,” Jake said. “Technically, it belongs to my company.”
“Indolent Rich Guy, Inc.? Seriously, how did you get all this?”
He merely smiled in response and nodded at the bottle of red wine on the table. “You should try that. It’s great.”
“I can’t. Not if we’re actually going to go through with this.” She tightened her seat belt one more time for good measure. “You have to be sober to get married in Vegas. All those Hollywood movies about drunken weddings are factually inaccurate.” She tapped her phone screen. “So says Google.”
“What?” He sat up straighter. “What the hell is the point of going to Vegas to get married in the middle of the night sober?”
“I’m just guessing, but maybe they don’t want people making terrible choices with random strangers because of too much champagne.”
He considered this, then shrugged. “It’ll be fine. Keep drinking if you want.”
She shook her head. “But—”
“Even if there’s a sobriety checkpoint at the altar, I know a guy.”
“You know a guy?”
He pulled out his wallet. “Benjamin Franklin.”
“Seriously?” She rolled her eyes. “You think you can buy your way around the rules?”
Again with that heart-melting smile. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Well . . .” Brighton held out her glass for some wine. “I guess if I’m going to be irresponsible, I might as well do it right.”
“That’s the spirit.” He took a sip from her glass, then passed it back to her.
“So . . . one of the drive-through chapels?” she suggested.
“I like it.”
“And then we can go get fries.”
“Done.” Jake pulled out his phone. “I’ll have a plan in place by the time we land.”
“You can plan an impromptu wedding after drinking this much?” She stumbled over the pronunciation of “impromptu.”
“I haven’t had that much.”
“Yeah, I guess I’m drinking enough for the both of us.” She blinked. “Are we really doing this?”
He didn’t glance up from his phone. “It’s your call.”
“Because I’m only doing this for spite, you know.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“You don’t have a problem with that?”
“Nope.”
“But . . . I’ll be your wife.” The word sounded so strange in her mouth.
“That’s usually how it goes after a wedding.”
She tilted her head, assessing him through the shadows. “Why are you doing this?”
He held up his index finger and started talking on the phone. For the next few minutes, Brighton gazed out the window at the blinking lights on the wing while Jake talked marriage license logistics.
“So what are we going to do for the next few hours?” Brighton asked when Jake hung up. “Besides go through all the wine they have on board? It’s a long flight, right?”
“A few hours.” He reached into a drawer and produced a deck of cards. “Want to play blackjack?”
“Sure. Give me a quick rundown on the rules.”
He gave her an incredulous look. “You don’t know how to play blackjack? A midnight Vegas trip is wasted on you.”
“Tell me the rules. I love rules. And I’m really good with numbers and statistics.”
He seemed skeptical.
“Come on, tell me the rules and deal the cards. You might want to go grab some Kleenex, because I’m going to beat you so bad, you’ll be crying just like my bar-exam-failing fiancé.” She hiccupped. “Ex-fiancé.”
• • •
After losing her twentieth game of blackjack, Brighton’s memory of the night’s events got a bit blurry. Which was too bad, because she was sure that arriving at a private airfield and being whisked away in a limo were very exciting and glamorous.
The good news was, she was no longer thinking about Colin—or anything else related to her real life. In a matter of hours, she’d gone from total burnout to jet-setting party girl.
“My shirt has red wine on it,” she lamented as the limo cruised down the neon-lit Vegas strip.
“I’d say that’s the least of your problems right now.” Sprawled out on the seat next to her, Jake was trying—and failing—to conceal the fact that he was completely wasted.
“You may have a point.” She kept dabbing at her cream-colored blouse with one of the wet wipes she always carried in her bag. Looking at her naked fingers under the traffic lights reminded her: “What are we going to do for rings?”
“Whatever you want. After we hit the drive-through, we can go pick something out. I’ll buy you the biggest, blingiest diamond in Nevada.”
“Eh, I’d rather get fries.” As if on cue, her stomach growled. “I’m starving. Besides, I doubt we’ll be married long enough to actually wear the rings. It’d be a waste.”
His expression was almost pitying. “It’s not a waste if it’s fun.”
“Yeah, but . . .” She threw up her hands. “How long do you think we’ll last, anyway?”
Jake shrugged. “Haven’t really thought about it.”
“We have to last longer than Colin and his new bride,” Brighton decided. “You can date other people if you want to, but there’s no way I’m filing for divorce until he does.”
“It’s good to have a goal.”
“This is a huge mistake,” she said cheerfully. “But you know, it’s kind of exciting. Getting drunk. Marrying a stranger. I have a feeling . . .”
“Yes?”
She flung out her arms. “This is the beginning of what shall be known as my screw-up summer. I’ll act out and make mistakes and not care what anyone thinks.” The whole world was spinning. All she could see were streaks of dark and light and bright colors. “I’m really looking forward to it.”
“You’ll have stories to tell your grandkids one day.”
“Oh, I’ll never be able to tell my grandkids anything about it. That’s the point.” She stifled a huge yawn. “Thanks for being the catalyst for chaos and self-indulgence.”
He patted her knee. “Happy to help.”
Brighton bounced in her seat as the limo arrived at a white sign emblazoned with two interlocking yellow rings. “We made it.” She reached across the seat, took Jake’s hand in hers, and stared deep into his eyes. “Last chance to bail.”
“I’m not bailing,” he vowed. “I’m in if you’re in.”
“Then get your bribery cash out and let’s do this.”
But there was a line at the drive-through—a rusty pickup truck and a red convertible idled in front of the limo.
“Damn,” Brighton muttered. “There should be a VIP lane at the drive-through chapel. Can’t your people get us an E-ZPass?”
“We’re looking at a ten-minute wait, tops.”
“I know, but we need to get this over with before I lose my nerve.” The pickup truck’s brake lights flickered, and Brighton bounced in her seat. “Okay, here we go. Five minutes and counting.” She fumbled for her bag. “I swear I had a stain stick in here somewhere.”
“Let it go.” Jake pulled her other hand into his.
She leaned in toward him, basking in the hormones and the buzz. “We’re about to g
et married and we haven’t even kissed yet.”
“I can cross that off your list right now.” He tilted his head.
But she forced herself to pull back. “Not yet. We waited this long. Might as well wait five more minutes ’til we make it legal.”
He laughed. “An old-fashioned girl.”
“Practically Victorian.” Brighton dug her cell phone out of her bag and turned on the camera feature. “As long as we’re stuck in traffic, I have a few texts to send a certain ex.”
chapter 7
“Urgh.” Brighton woke up a few hours later, completely disoriented. Her mouth—her entire head, really—tasted like vinegar. She heard the rustle of a fast-food wrapper when she shifted her feet. Her wool blazer smelled faintly of cigarettes and her skirt was bunched up around her thighs.
But she was covered in a soft, featherweight cashmere blanket. Her head rested on a fluffy pillow. She was stretched out in all her hungover glory on the leather seats of Jake Sorensen’s private jet.
She was . . . married?
She lifted her head and propped herself up on her elbows, blinking as the plane’s interior came into focus through the dim lighting. Jake was slouched on the other side of the cabin, gazing down at the screen of a laptop computer.
She licked her lips and cleared her throat, but her voice still sounded like she’d been singing karaoke at the top of her lungs all night. “Hey.”
“You’re awake.” He pointed out a bottle of water on the table next to her. “Hydrate.”
“I feel like . . .” She rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. “I’d say I haven’t felt this hungover since college, but I’ve never felt this hungover, ever.” She paused to gulp some of the cool, fresh water. “Did we . . . did we go through with it?”
“We did.” He closed the laptop and gave her his full attention, but the sensual smolder had been replaced with an almost detached friendliness. Something had happened between pulling up to the drive-through chapel and now; they were no longer boozy partners in crime. Now they were two adults who had just met.
Who happened to be married.
“Did we kiss?” she asked.
He furrowed his brow. “I think so. Right after I introduced the officiant to Benjamin Franklin and right before you passed out.”
She covered her lips with her hand. “How was it?”
“Brief. Official. Wine-flavored.”
She tugged her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “How are you still awake?”
He shrugged. “I’m supposed to be looking over some work documents.”
“You’re working.” The reality of everything they’d done slammed into her. “It’s our wedding night and you’re working? That’s not very indolent of you.”
“I’m supposed to be looking over some documents,” he clarified. “I’m actually watching a documentary on giant radioactive wolves.”
Brighton scrambled into a sitting position. “Like, science fiction?”
“No, they’re real. It’s about what happened to the wildlife at the abandoned Chernobyl site.”
“Is that . . . related to your job?”
“Not even remotely.”
“Okay.” She blinked a few times. “You like nature documentaries?”
“I do when they’re about radioactive wolves.” He lifted the shade so she could see the golden morning sunlight. “We won’t be landing for another hour. You can go back to sleep, if you want.”
“What kind of work do you do that you can afford all this?” she rasped. “Private jets and teams of people to do your bidding wherever you go?”
He didn’t reply. She could hear the steady drone of the engines and the hiss of air from the overhead vents.
Just when she started to wonder if she’d inadvertently offended him, he asked, “Do you like to talk about your job when you’re hanging out at bars or flying to Vegas?”
“No,” Brighton admitted. “But that’s because my work is really boring.”
He nodded. “My work is really boring, too.”
“Boring and completely legal . . . right?” She laced her hands together and squeezed.
“Completely,” he assured her.
“It better be. Because, so help me, if I find out later that you’re some sort of drug dealer or Mafia kingpin, I’m going to be pissed.”
“If I were into drugs or organized crime, I wouldn’t be spending my summers in Black Dog Bay.” The warmth had returned to his voice and his eyes. “Everybody knows everything about everybody else, and they all talk.”
“Good. I just want to make sure you don’t have a criminal past. Or a criminal present, for that matter.”
He mirrored her solemn expression. “If it makes you feel better, a wife cannot be forced to testify against her husband. So if I were a criminal, marrying me is actually reducing your odds of getting caught up in all the legal proceedings.”
Her eyes widened and her palms started to sweat. “The fact that you know that does not make me feel better.”
“Relax. I’m just torturing you.”
“Well, knock it off and reassure me that cocaine and arms trafficking didn’t pay for this plane.”
He finally relented. “Sand paid for this plane.”
“What?”
“Sand, concrete, and gravel.”
“Elaborate, please.”
“I started out supplying concrete for construction contracts.” He looked and sounded completely bored with this topic of conversation. “That’s how I made my first million.”
“First million’s the hardest, right?” Brighton paused. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“Then I branched into gravel, and now I supply sand for corporate and military contracting jobs in the Middle East. The end.”
“You send sand to the Middle East. Like, the desert?”
Jake nodded. “The sand over there is too fine for sandblasting concrete. We use a proprietary processing method and ship it over.”
“You built this”—she gestured to the cashmere and the polished walnut panels and the leather upholstery—“out of sand and gravel. That’s kind of . . .”
“Redneck. I know.”
Where had that come from? “‘Redneck’ is not the word I would use to describe you.”
He watched her expression. “Disappointed I’m not part of a seedy underworld syndicate?”
“No,” she said, a bit too quickly.
“What about you?” he countered. “How do I know you don’t have a criminal past?”
“Seriously?” She glanced down at her outfit. “Look at me.”
“I’m looking. The suit and the pearls could be a façade.”
“They’re not.”
“For all I know, you could be an undercover cop or a Russian spy.”
“No.” She sighed. “I am exactly as buttoned-up and responsible as I look.”
“You just flew off to Vegas to marry a stranger.”
“A stranger who doesn’t have a criminal past or a loan shark after him.” She snuggled back into her cashmere cocoon. “Ooh, so rebellious.”
He laughed and closed the window shade. “Baby steps.”
Just as she was drifting back to sleep, Brighton sat up straight, gasping. “Kira.”
“Who?” Jake asked.
“My friend Kira. I was at the bar with her last night. She has no idea what happened to me.” Brighton scrambled to straighten her skirt and grab her purse. “I need to call her right now. Can I use my cell in flight?”
“Sure.”
Brighton entered her password to unlock her phone, then gasped as she looked at the image on the screen. “Oh no. Oh no no no.”
“What?” Jake moved to sit next to her. He still smelled freshly laundered, with just a hint of woodsy cologne. It was like the laws of physics a
nd hangovers didn’t apply to him.
“I texted Colin last night.” She felt light-headed. “After the drive-through. I don’t remember any of this, but the time stamp says one a.m. Why didn’t someone take away my phone?”
“Because you’re a professional woman who’s clearly capable of making her own decisions.”
“What have I done? What have I done?” Brighton scrolled through the texts she had sent to her ex.
All twenty-eight of them.
Photos of the limo.
Photos of the private jet.
Photos of Brighton and Jake holding up the freshly signed marriage certificate and a bottle of champagne.
“Oh my God,” Brighton whispered. “I sent these to my fiancé. I mean, my ex-fiancé.”
Jake started laughing. “When did we get another bottle of champagne?”
And then, as if the pictures weren’t bad enough, Brighton noticed the typo – and autocorrect-riddled captions she’d included with each photo:
Floying commercial is so pleb
Look at the smolder on this guy
Not to mention the hair
It’s like he’s the lost Hemsworth brother
Marrying a Stranger: I WIN!!!!!!
“I’m dying.” She pulled the blanket over her head. “I’m dead. How will I ever go back to New Jersey?”
“You know what the great thing is about marrying me?” Jake said. “You don’t have to.”
Brighton yanked the blanket down. “Of course I do. What about my job?”
“Quit,” he suggested. “It’s your screw-up summer, remember?”
“Screwing up my summer is one thing, but I don’t want to screw up my whole life.”
He gave her an appraising look. “I’m willing to bet you have some vacation days stored up.”
“Um. Maybe.” Three years’ worth. Plus sick days. Plus personal days.
“Then take some time off.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.” But she did know. She was afraid. Afraid that if she took a break, her boss and her coworkers would realize that she wasn’t indispensable. And she’d spend her vacation time doing . . . what? Admitting that she had no interests outside of work and helping her boyfriend study contract law?
Put a Ring On It Page 6
