by Nikki Chase
I winked at her. “I could say the same about that dress of yours . . . but believe me, I’m not complaining. Now, come on, let’s go find this rollercoaster of yours.”
We bought cans of beer from a guy with a cooler on the side of the street and walked down the strip chatting as we drank them. Tessa was from out of town, visiting the friend she’d talked about at the bar, but before I could learn more about her we’d arrived at our destination.
She ducked inside and a short while later we were strapped in, whirling around at 60 miles per hour under a huge dome.
Tessa screamed and laughed, and her enthusiasm and lust for life was infectious. I had to admit, this beat the pants off staying back in the Bellagio and rolling some craps. I’d spent a lot of time in Vegas over the years, but I’d never had a night quite like this.
The rest of the evening passed by in a surreal blur. There were flamingos, an underwater temple, Roman Gods and hot dogs eaten on the street from a little hole-in-the-wall diner. We drank, we laughed, and we had a fucking all-around amazing time. I even forgot that I was supposed to be trying to get Tessa into bed, we were having so much fun.
At some point, we found ourselves back at the Bellagio, standing in front of the fountains. The night was cool now, the crowds thinning out a little. Tessa shivered a little, and I offered her my jacket, but she declined.
“Let’s dance,” she said.
“What, right here?” I replied.
“Yeah. Come on. I hope you know how to dance. I don’t date men who can’t dance.”
I laughed and raised an eyebrow. “Who said anything about dating?”
“Shut up,” she said, and kissed me on the lips. It took my breath away, but before I could respond she’d broken contact and took my hands. We danced close, the fountains in the background, gaudy beads around our necks from I didn’t even remember where, and, to make things just that little bit weirder, a giant pink elephant balloon floating over our heads.
Tessa was a much better dancer than I was, so I mostly followed her lead. She spun and twirled, eyes closed and completely in the moment. I was completely spellbound by her.
The fountains stopped, and she twirled one last time into my arms, resting her head on my shoulder. She pointed over to the replica Eiffel tower in the distance.
“I always wanted to see the real thing . . .” she murmured dreamily. “But I never had the money. Maybe one day . . .”
“Luke, are you even listening to me?”
I’m rudely awoken from my daydream by Brock, still standing there looking disgruntled. He’s already dressed for the day, looking sharp in a pressed suit.
I, on the other hand, look and feel like shit. My head’s pounding, my mouth feels as dry as the desert outside the window, and I’ve got to pee.
I pull myself out of bed and go to the bathroom, as Brock continues to browbeat me. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook all morning. Everyone wants to know about this girl —who she is, where you met her, was the wedding planned?”
Brock laughs bitterly, probably realizing the scale of his work over the next few days.
“I mean, seriously, Luke? A shotgun Vegas wedding? What the fuck were you thinking? Jesus Christ, I don’t even know where to start with this one. I let you out of my sight for one goddamn night, and you go and do something like this. Do you know what the board will say?”
He sounds vaguely panicked. I finish up in the bathroom and pad back into the room, still dressed only in my boxers.
Brock takes a deep breath and starts flipping through the large stack of papers he’s holding.
“Okay, I guess we can ignore the tabloids for now. But shit, Luke, even the major business newspapers have been calling, asking if this will affect our acquisitions. I say we sit down right now, come up with a statement that we can start releasing, and then try and see how to get this colossal fuck-up fixed before it causes any more trouble.”
I yawn. “Where’s my phone?”
“Finally, some reaction.” Brock looks relieved.
He grabs my cell from the coffee table and throws it over to me. I catch it in one hand and start swiping.
“Now, you need to start calling around, telling people not to talk to the media until we get this statement—”
I interrupt him. “Relax, Brock, before you keel over or something. I’m not calling the office.”
He stands there, open-mouthed in shock.
I find Tessa’s number on my phone and smile.
“So, everyone wants to know about this girl, huh? So do I, as a matter of fact. I should give my wife a call.”
Tessa
With breakfast finished (and my Bloody Mary left untouched) Claire and I are desperately searching the Internet to try and find out how to annul a marriage.
I’m far too hungover to read and decipher legalese, so I leave the bulk of the work to her. She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, laptop in front of her, poring over various websites and frowning.
Claire starts reading aloud from one site. “To qualify for an annulment, a marriage must be legally void or voidable. Void means that it is not valid, while voidable means that a court can declare it to be invalid if it is challenged . . .”
She sighs.
“This all sounds so complicated and difficult. Can’t you just go to a judge or something and tell them it was a mistake? How hard can it be?”
“Isn’t there something that says if I was too drunk to know what I was doing, it doesn’t count? Surely that must be a thing.” I sip on my water, trying to fight through the crashing pain of my headache.
Claire looks at me, then types away on the keyboard again for a few seconds. A couple more minutes of frowning and concentrating, then she lets out a victorious whoop.
“Look!” she says excitedly, turning the laptop towards me. “You’re actually right!”
I try to read the screen, but the letters are blurry and swimming around in front of my eyes, making it impossible to focus on them.
“I can’t read it,” I groan. “Can you just tell me the important parts?”
Claire’s voice grows louder in excitement, her words tumbling swiftly out of her mouth as she reads. “Did one or both of the parties lack the requisite mental capacity to voluntarily enter into the marriage due to the effects of drugs or alcohol?
“That’s it, right? It’s basically saying that you can call it off if you were too drunk to know what you were doing. You’re in the clear!”
She reads on for a few more moments.
“It looks like you just need to sign some forms, and then serve him some documents, then it’s like the marriage never happened.”
I sigh. “To me, it sounds like that’s going to involve lawyers, and lawyers cost money. I don’t actually have any money. Thank God I just landed that new job.”
“Are you kidding me?” Claire shoots me an incredulous look. “Tess, you are currently married to a billionaire. You’re entitled to some of his shit. You could get alimony, some of his assets—hell, you could just stay married to him!”
I shake my head. “I don’t want any of his money. I just want this all to go away, for last night to be erased. Then I can start fresh, just like I was planning.”
“Tess, babe, it’s Luke Alder.” My friend looks completely bemused. “Think about this for a second. This could be an amazing opportunity for you. You could be set for life if you do this properly. Never have to worry about money ever again. Never have to work. Live a life of luxury with me, your best pal.”
To be honest, I wasn’t going to pretend that it wasn’t tempting. I’d spent so long being dirt poor, worrying about money, bills, rent payments, that to never have to think about that stuff ever again was extremely seductive.
“I hear what you’re saying,” I reply, “but it would feel . . . wrong, somehow. I didn’t do anything to earn any of that.”
“What? Of course you did! That’s the law, and if loverboy didn’t want it to happen, well maybe he
shouldn’t have agreed to marry you!”
If I did choose to go down that route . . .
It’s probably fair to say that someone like Luke Alder hasn’t become as rich as he is by being loose and free with his money. He probably has money managers, wealth consultants, and lawyers out the wazoo.
Meanwhile, all I have is . . . Well, I don’t have anything at all. No money, no legal knowhow, no support network. If I demand money from him, it’ll end up in court, I’ll have to pay lawyers, show up to hearings, and on and on and on. I don’t really have the time or the inclination.
“It was just a moment of drunken craziness, Claire,” I say. “A mistake on both our parts. I’m sure he’ll agree, once he wakes up and realizes what we did. Hell, he’s probably freaking out right now, watching the news.”
“I can’t believe you’re being so damn blasé about this whole thing, Tess!” She frowns. “There are millions of women around the world who would do terrible, awful things to be in the position you’re in right now. I mean, to be married to a billionaire . . . and not just any billionaire; a young, hot one! You’ve hit the goddamn jackpot!”
“But I don’t even know him,” I reply. “We spent one evening together, and sure, it was a fun evening—as far as I can remember, at least—but you don’t just go marrying people after one fun night! I wouldn’t be surprised if he never even wants to speak to me again. He’ll probably get his lawyers to handle the whole thing so he can go back to sleeping with random sluts and making more money.”
And then, right on cue, my phone starts ringing.
Claire is way quicker then me in my hungover state, and jumps up off the bed and grabs it. She takes one look at the caller ID and her eyes light up.
“You couldn’t be more wrong!” she yells. “Look!”
She hands the phone to me, and I look down at the screen, dread creeping up from my stomach.
The caller ID says Hubby.
“Hubby?” I groan. “Really? Holy crap, I need to stop drinking.”
It rings on and on, and I just stare at it dumbly, not knowing what to do.
“Uhhh,” Claire says, “so are you going to answer it or not? He clearly wants to talk to you.”
I hang up and throw the phone down on the bed. I can’t face talking to him right now. Hell, I can barely even remember what he looks like. But as soon as the phone hits the bedsheets, it starts ringing again.
Persistent, isn’t he?
“Tess, you’re being childish,” Claire says, exasperated. “If you won’t talk to him, I will. You need to know what’s going on, and I want to find out just what you two lovebirds got up to last night . . .”
Before she can answer the phone, I spring forward with a surprising burst of speed and wrestle it from her.
“No!” I shout. “I just can’t! It’s too embarrassing, and I don’t want to make this any more complicated than it needs to be.”
I turn the phone off.
“I’ll send him an email,” I say firmly. “That way I can organize my thoughts, only say what I need to, and we can get this whole mess sorted out and I can forget it ever happened.”
“An email?!” Claire says. “Are you for real?”
But I’m already booting up my laptop. Just one problem: I don’t even know my husband’s middle name, let alone his goddamn email address.
“Claire, what company does he work for?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes, thoroughly cheesed off with me.
“Alder Investments,” she replies, moodily. “It’s one of the biggest hedge funds in the world or something like that. How can you not even know who this guy is, Tess? He’s in all the magazines, like, every week.”
I shrug. “I don’t read them. Honestly, after everything that happened with my last marriage, I just haven’t been that interested in guys.”
I search the Internet for Alder Investments and find their slick corporate website. A few minutes of digging, and I spot what appears to be Luke’s personal email address.
I take a deep breath and start typing.
End of preview.
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About the Author
Nikki Chase is a contemporary romance author. After having her own real-life, insta-love experience, Nikki now lives happily ever after with her husband in the Pacific Northwest.
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