What happens in Vegas…
When Georgie discovers that her fiancé has been cheating on her, only a few days before her cousin’s wedding, her whole world explodes. Facing a romantic trip to Vegas alone, she decides to go out and have some fun…
…but Georgie never expected to wake up wed! And even worse, she can’t remember who to. So when gorgeous Jack reveals himself as her husband, she can’t believe her luck – he’ll act as the perfect wedding date!
Even if it is their very accidental honeymoon, surely the newlyweds can keep their emotions in check for just a few days more?
Don’t miss the laugh-out-loud romantic comedy from Portia MacIntosh, author of It’s Not You, It’s Them. Perfect for fans of Rosie Blake, Sophie Kinsella and Lindsey Kelk.
Also from Portia Macintosh
Between a Rockstar and a Hard Place
How Not to Be Starstruck
Bad Bridesmaid
Drive Me Crazy
Truth or Dare
It’s Not You, It’s Them
The Accidental Honeymoon
Portia MacIntosh
ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES
Contents
Cover
Blurb
Book List
Title Page
Author Bio
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Excerpt
Endpages
Copyright
PORTIA MACINTOSH
has been ‘making stuff up’ for as long as she can remember – or so she says. Whether it was blaming her siblings for that broken vase when she was growing up, blagging her way backstage during her rock-chick phase or, currently, coming up with whatever justification she can fabricate to explain away those lunchtime cocktails, Portia just loves telling tales.
After years working as music journalist, Portia decided it was time to use her powers for good and started writing novels. Taking inspiration from her experiences on tour with bands, the real struggle of dating in your twenties, and just trying to survive as an adult human female generally, Portia writes about what it’s really like for women who don’t find this life stuff as easy as it seems. You can follow her on Twitter at: @PortiaMacIntosh
For BAE, my family & my doggos.
It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been at it, it never truly sinks in that I get to write books. To finish them, to see them published and the fact that people actually read them still blows my mind. I don’t think the shine will ever wear off – I wouldn’t ever want it to.
None of this would be possible without the hard work, help and support of the people around me.
Thanks, as always, to my editor, Charlotte, for her continuing hard work and support. Without her guidance and the seemingly endless work of everyone at HQ, you wouldn’t be reading this now.
A massive thank you to everyone who reads and reviews my books. To have the support of so many wonderful readers and reviewers blows me away. An extra special shout-out to my wonderful friend Helena for all her help and to the beautiful Blossom Twins for going above and beyond with their support – grazie mille.
Thank you to my parents for all of their love and support. If it weren’t for my wonderful, beautiful, supportive mum, I wouldn’t be writing. Thank you for always believing in me. They say you can’t choose your family, but I couldn’t have asked for two more incredible brothers. They’re not just my siblings, they’re my best friends. Without them, I’m not sure I’d be the person I am today – I owe them so much that I’ll never be able to repay them for. A huge shout-out also has to go to my beautiful granny and my wonderful doggos. I love you all so much.
Last but not least, thank you to my other half. I’ll never know what I could have possibly done to deserve him, but I do know how lucky I am to have him. Sometimes I have to pinch myself because there’s this incredible, gorgeous man, and he’s always around, always looking out for me, making my life better every day. He’s my world, my best friend and the love of my life.
Chapter One
‘What have you got in here, a body?’ the hotel porter asks as he places my suitcase on the floor.
‘Ha, ha, ha,’ I laugh politely, but the worried look on his face suggests he would actually like an explanation.
‘I did a bit of last-minute holiday shopping on my way here,’ I tell him. Well, what I actually did was buy myself the best part of a whole new wardrobe. In an inexplicable moment of madness I bought everything I could get my hands on that was distinctly ‘not me’. I left home for my trip without the suitcase I’d already packed with my usual, demure, conservative clothing. Instead, I bought a new one and overstuffed it with short, low, brightly coloured, cheaply made alternatives.
‘Good for you,’ he replies. ‘I thought maybe your fiancé was in there.’
‘Ha, ha, ha,’ I laugh again, this time a little more genuinely as I fantasise about John being stuffed in a suitcase.
‘So, let me show you around the room.’
I glance around my corner suite at the Black Diamond Hotel. It’s still daylight, but even so, the view is amazing. The first thing I do is head towards the window to take it all in.
‘First time in Vegas?’ the porter asks.
I nod my head.
‘I figured so when I heard your accent. Well, you’re in for a treat when it gets dark. This is one of our best rooms for admiring the view. This over here is your bathroom.’
The porter gestures towards a door. I pop my head inside. Both the floor and wall tiles are black, flecked with colourful sparkles that twinkle the second he flicks the light on. There’s a huge rainfall shower and an even bigger bath. Even the toilet is fancy with its silver mosaic finish, resembling a disco ball.
‘It’s very nice,’ I tell him.
‘And back in the bedroom, the mini bar and safe are down here.’ He gestures to a cupboard. ‘And the TV is inside this cabinet.’
‘Awesome,’ I reply, struggling to hide my indifference.
‘And here is your bed, obviously. It’s a super king, with Egyptian cotton sheets. The rose petals were a request by your fiancé – you’re a very lucky lady.’
I smile as I reach for my purse to tip the porter.
‘Thank you for all your help,’ I tell him, handing him some money.
The porter takes it and thanks me, but he doesn’t leave the room. Instead, he hovers in the doorway.
‘Is everything OK with your room, M
iss… er…?’ he asks.
‘Georgie,’ I reply. ‘And it’s great. Thank you.’
Still, the porter lingers.
‘It’s just… you don’t seem very happy with it,’ he persists.
‘Honestly, the room is perfect.’
He furrows his brow, unconvinced.
‘Well, OK then.’
‘OK then,’ I echo.
I force a smile, holding it only as long as it takes the porter to close the door behind him. Finally alone, I crouch down on the floor next to the inviting-looking bed and start picking up the pink and red rose petals that have been scattered around the room. I place the ones from the floor on top of the bed before scooping them all up together. I glance around for a wastepaper bin, but it turns out that’s the only thing this room doesn’t seem to have. There isn’t a bin in the fancy bathroom either. I just need these rose petals out of here. The sparkly toilet literally catches my eye, so I dump the petals inside and flush. I’m walking out of the bathroom when the sound of the toilet spluttering catches my ear. I glance back at it and realise I’ve blocked it, the water having risen all the way to the top. Brilliant, wonderful, marvellous. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.
I massage my temples for a moment, wracking my brains for a solution. I am a strong, independent woman who doesn’t need a man. Glancing into the toilet, full to the seat with water, completely out of my depth, I realise I might not need a man, but I definitely need a plumber, and it could well be a bloke. First, though, I need a drink.
Seeing as I’ll be spending the entire evening in here alone, I may as well pillage the mini bar. I grab all of the tiny bottles of booze and line them up on the desk in front of me.
I tap a finger on the bottles one at a time, trying to figure out which one to have first. I land on a miniature bottle of gin, remove the lid and toss the contents down the hatch. ‘Argh!’ I say out loud. I’m not usually one for drinking spirits neat.
I cast an eye over the snacks in the mini bar, umming and aahing over whether to eat the honey-roasted nuts, the vegetables chips or one of the many bars of chocolate. I shrug my shoulders, grab them all and dump them down on the bed, but as I go back for the tiny bottles of booze, I notice something else in the mini bar. I take the can from the inside door and examine it. It’s some energy drink-looking thing called Ecstasy. I hate energy drinks, so I quickly return it, except, as I place it back down, I hear the contents rattle. What could it be? Not drugs, surely. This is a beautiful hotel, and they couldn’t guarantee their guests would keep quiet about such a thing. I cock my head with curiosity, taking the can back out. It’s black, with fancy red writing on it, and not a whole lot of other information. Curiouser and curiouser, I pop the top off and peep into the rabbit hole. Unable to make anything out, I pour the contents into my hand, only to cause them to spill out all over the desk. It all happens so quickly, but as the silver bullet inside bounces on the desk a couple of times, it activates the power and causes it to vibrate. The bullet pauses on the edge of the desk, but only for a second before the powerful vibrations send it flying off behind the furniture. As I take stock of the other items – a condom, a small tube of lubricant and a blindfold – I realise this is some sort of sex kit, and that the vibrator that came with it (no pun intended) is currently lodged behind this big, heavy desk, vibrating loudly against the wood.
I move quickly, but it’s no use. I can’t reach it. Damn this stupid bodycon dress I bought today, that I can’t bloody move in. Thinking fast, I slip the dress off, allowing me my usual full range of body movements, and lean over the desk, reaching behind it to try and grab the offending vibrator.
There’s a knock on the door.
‘Just a sec,’ I call back. I can feel the vibrator with the tips of my fingers, but I just can’t get a hold of it. Just one big stretch and… oh God, my hand is stuck. My bangle is caught on the back of the desk. When I took off my clothes to try and reach, I never even thought about my tacky new accessories.
Whoever is at my door knocks again.
‘Coming,’ I snap loudly, in case they didn’t hear me the first time.
If I can just wiggle my hand free and turn this thing off…
‘Hello? Miss… Georgie?’ I hear the porter call as he opens the room door.
‘Oh my God, what are you doing in here?’ I call back.
‘You said “come in”,’ he replies. ‘I…’
He falls silent the second he lays eyes on me.
‘I said “coming”,’ I say softly, attempting to bury my probably very red face in the desk.
‘What’s… er…’
The porter is clearly lost for words.
‘I’m stuck,’ I tell him simply.
He rushes over and pulls the desk out from in front of the wall. I free my hand before snatching the vibrator, turning it off and quickly grabbing the bed sheets to save me any further embarrassment – as though that might be possible.
‘“Come in”, “coming” – I guess it’s the accent,’ he says awkwardly. He glances around the room, taking stock of all the alcohol, junk food and sex aids scattered around. Having just seen me bent over the desk in my underwear, trying to retrieve a loudly buzzing vibrator, I can only imagine what he’s thinking. ‘Erm, anyway, I have some good news. I know you said everything with the room was fine. Anyway, I don’t know if that’s good old English manners or what, but I told the manager something wasn’t right and he asked me to give you this voucher for a fully comped three-course meal in our restaurant tonight, for you and your fiancé – and a bottle of champagne for now.’
He smiles widely and theatrically.
‘Thank you so much,’ I reply, touched by his gesture. I tighten the bed sheets around my body – lest he see me in my underwear again – before taking the vouchers in one hand and the champagne in the other. I place them down on the desk before wrapping my arms around my body self-consciously.
‘And here are some chips – on the house. We wish you and your fiancé the best of luck in our casino.’
I take the chips from him. As I glance down at the numbers, I realise I’m holding $1,000 worth of chips.
‘Thank you.’
‘Are you having your champagne now, or are you waiting until your fiancé gets here?’ he asks.
‘Oh, now,’ I reply, a little quicker and more keenly than I probably should have.
‘Would you like me to pour it for you?’ he asks, although I can tell he wants to get out of this room just as much as I want him to.
‘It’s fine, thank you. I can handle things from here,’ I reply.
‘I’m sure you can,’ he replies – probably sarcastically. ‘Well, I promise not to bother you again in another ten minutes.’ Bloody hell, is that all it was?! ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘No, thank you,’ I reply. ‘Actually, yes, wait…’ I call after him. ‘I blocked my toilet.’
Chapter Two
Trust is a funny, fragile thing. You know what they say about trust? How it’s hard to gain, easy to lose and impossible to win back? There’s a lot of truth in this. We take our time getting to know potential partners, holding back from fully handing ourselves over to them until we feel as confident as we possibly can that they won’t break our hearts. And then, if they do… well good luck trying to have a healthy relationship after that because those things can never be mended – least of all by the people who broke them. Even when it comes to friends, we don’t trust them immediately. We wait until we’ve achieved expert-level BFF status before we share our deepest and darkest secrets with them.
Yes, trust is hard to earn… unless you’re a hairdresser. A hairdresser is basically a very cheap therapist who can somehow simultaneously solve your problems while telling you exactly what you want to hear to feel better, and they can give you a self-esteem boost not even the most talented, most qualified therapist could achieve.
The hotel salon is exactly like every other salon I’ve ever
been in. The decor is modern, the lighting is kind, the music is whatever is in the charts – playing a little too loudly, but it’s being drowned out by the usual hairdresser chatter.
One of the girls who works here is telling the room she’s worried her boyfriend might leave her.
‘Have you tried talking to him?’ one customer with rollers in her hair asks.
‘A little, but you know what men are like,’ she replies. ‘He’s always been quiet, not really into sharing feelings.’
A heavily pregnant hairdresser chimes in: ‘You can’t just ask men questions and expect answers, everyone knows that.’
As she says this, she gesticulates a little too wildly for my liking, given she’s working with scissors so close to a lady’s eyes.
‘So, what do I do?’ the girl asks.
The pregnant lady is probably the oldest stylist here – probably only in her mid thirties, but she seems like the mother hen of the place. I scoot forwards on my seat a little, ready to listen to her advice.
‘I’ll tell you exactly what you do,’ she starts. ‘Go to the store, buy a pregnancy test, bring it here – I’ll pee on it for you – then take it to him and see what he says. If he’s a good man, he’ll stand by you. If not, you’re better off without him.’
I don’t know what I find more alarming – that this lady is willing to give her pee to anyone who wants it to manipulate their man, or that no one else seems to find this advice weird.
The girl with the problem nods thoughtfully.
‘You think you’ve got problems,’ the lady with the rollers starts, ready to one-up the girl with boy problems. ‘Eighteen years I’ve been with my lousy husband and he forgets our anniversary.’
Her strong New York accent commands the room, and suddenly her problems take precedence.
Pregnant hairdresser thinks thoughtfully, tapping her comb on her pursed lips.
‘No sex,’ she concludes. ‘It’s the only way to teach him a lesson.’
‘Honey, didn’t you hear me? I said we’d been married eighteen years. We don’t have sex!’ she replies with a cackle.
The Accidental Honeymoon Page 1
