And just like that, I’m right back to hangover, nightmare hell - the whole world spinning around me as I drop back against the sliding door.
“What the fuck is that.”
It’s a stupid question, because even a guy like me knows exactly what a ring on that finger is.
“What do you think it is?” she mutters out, shaking her head and looking away. “Look at your hand.”
“Why, what’s on my-”
Oh, shit.
A gold, gleaming band that looks suspiciously like…
It starts to come back then - the shots, the dancing, the limo driver who’s hand I palmed a wad of cash into and promised season tickets to. I remember kissing her against the railing by the Bellagio fountains, and something about wishes, and some extremely sloppy-drunk talk about us being best friends.
Oh holy Christ.
“That’s not- I mean-”
I look away from the ring on my hand, pinching the bridge of nose in my fingers and squeezing my eyes shut - like that fucking ring and what it means might disappear if I close them hard enough.
“Real?” She spits out with a huff. “Side table, inside.”
I open my eyes to see her nodding glumly at the table just inside, and I quickly stumble back in and grab at the piece of paper laying there.
And that’s when the world goes still, as my eyes lock on the very real, very not-dreaming marriage license in my hand.
“Well, shit.”
Natalie groans from her chair behind me. “Yeah, ‘well shit’ is right, Austin - oh, or should I call you number thirty-three?”
I cock an eyebrow, a grin halfway teasing my lips. “Oh, so you know me now?”
“You really could have said something, you know,” she snaps.
I grin. “I did. I offered you five hundred grand to marry me, and you said yes.”
Her eyes narrow. “To fake marry you!”
I glare at her. “Well, yeah, no shit. But I think that was a two person job, princess.”
She scowls at me. “Well I’d have never in a million years said yes if I’d known who you were.”
“Oh, please, enlighten me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Because you’re you!” She flings a copy of the LA Times at me from the patio table, and I catch it in time to see some ridiculous opinion piece about my car crash with the junior commissioner’s daughter, along with some line calling me a “infamous philanderer.”
“I mean is there a girl you haven’t slept with in this country?”
I toss the paper over my shoulder and smirk. “You?”
Natalie’s face crumbles as she drops it into her hands and shakes her head. “Oh God, I’m going to be ill,” she groans. “I can’t believe we slept naked in the same bed, I probably have something now.”
I roll my eyes, glaring at her. “Alright, simmer down.”
Her shoulders start to hitch, her breath coming faster and faster as she rocks herself in the chair.
“Hey, hey!” I frown as I crouch next to her. “Stop, just breathe.”
This whole thing has spiraled way out of control, and suddenly, I hate Derek for even suggesting this ridiculous plan. The plan was something for show. Now? Now I’m legally married to little miss princess here - apparently the only girl in the damn world who actually and actively wants nothing to do with me.
I groan as the lancing pain in my head comes rushing back with a vengeance. I cringe and sit back on my heels, holding my head and trying to keep it together.
Fuck, I’m married. Me - the hottest, most in-demand bachelor in pro sports.
I need coffee.
Well, coffee or something ten times stronger. I need aspirin, or fucking Pedialyte or something. Fuck, I need something nuclear for this hangover.
But first thing’s first, I need coffee.
And then we need to sort this shit out, fast.
11
Natalie
The coffee burns through me like a cleansing fire, and for the first time since waking up to my nightmare, I’m at least feeling semi-human.
My head’s still swimming though, as I sit slumped in the diner booth, still feeling barely half-alive, as I take tentative sips from the mug in my hand.
I can’t believe this is happening.
This can’t be real - not in any rational world. There’s no real scenario where I somehow wake up to find myself actually married to the most notorious, crudest, scandal-ridden man in pro sports.
I have to be dreaming - at least, that’s what my brain keeps trying to tell me. I’m going to wake up any minute now, and I’ll still be the unmarried Natalie Ames, not the newly married Natalie Taylor. I’ll wake up back-
I frown; where indeed? Back with Vince? Back in my awful excuse for a life as someone’s life accessory?
I scowl into the mug in my hands - yeah, some choice.
But here I am, married. I got married.
In Las Vegas.
Austin looks about as terrible as I feel, which, though cruel sounding, does actually make me feel better. And he’s right - I’m fairly certain nothing happened last night. Well, aside from the rock on my finger. But psychically, I don’t think we actually got to that. I can remember kissing him – Lord, do I remember that much. In multiple bars and clubs, in that damn limousine, in the lobby of the hotel-
I cringe, suddenly wondering exactly how much of my night I’ll be reminded of in freaking tabloid papers, seeing as my new “husband” is apparently a world-famous sports star.
Yeah, I don’t follow sports of any kind in any way, but I’m kicking myself over how I could’ve managed not to put a name, or a face, or any of it to glimpses I can now recall on the cover of grocery store tabloid magazines.
“Okay, we can deal with this.”
I look up to see Austin rubbing his temples and staring haggardly into his own coffee.
“Uh, yeah, we get a divorce,” I mutter.
“Well, hang on now.”
I jerk my head up, narrowing my eyes at him.
“I mean, the deal was to get married, after all.”
My jaw drops. “For the last time, it was to get fake married,” I hiss.
Austin shrugs, waving his hand as if what I’ve just said is inconsequential.
“Whatever, yeah, but we were going to get fake divorced later.”
I make a face. “Oh were we?”
He raises a brow at me. “Uh, yeah, of course we were. This wasn’t for forever, obviously, just until I could get my image together a little bit. You’d meet someone else, leave me-”
I bark out a laugh. “You arrogant prick.”
“What?”
“I leave you?” I glare at him. “Why am I the heartless bitch who does the cheating and leaving in this scenario?”
He frowns. “Hey, I’m paying for my image, not yours.”
We glare at each other in silence, quietly sipping coffee as we shoot daggers at one another with our eyes.
Finally, he puts his mug down and steeples his fingers. “So we’ll wait, and get a real divorce later.”
I swear under my breath.
“I’ll pay for it, of course.”
I snort. “Damn right you will.”
Austin rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he grumbles. “We’ll work out who leaves who and why later, but for now.”
He shakes his head, knitting his brow.
“Fuck, for now, we’re married.”
“Fine.” I glare down at the table and push an empty sugar packet across the plastic surface.
Austin clears his throat. “So, uh, this is a little awkward, but now that we’re legally married…” he trails off and I frown.
“What?”
He shrugs. “I, uh, I need to protect myself.”
I see red for a second as I debate throwing my coffee right in his prick face.
“Excuse me?! You’re the gross man-whore here.”
“No, not that,” he says, snorting out a chuckle. “I mean financially.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“I need a prenup.”
I laugh. “Fuck you.”
“I’m serious.”
“Yeah, so am I. Do I look like a gold digger?”
He frowns. “Well, no, I’m just saying-”
“Fine, Austin.” I drop my head back against the booth behind me, grumbling up at the ceiling. I just want this to be over with.
“Fine, I’ll sign a freaking prenup, okay?”
I turn my face back to him. “Although I’m pretty sure the ‘pre’ part of ‘pre-nuptials’ means I sign it before we get married.”
He shrugs awkwardly. “Eh, shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll call my lawyer.”
I frown into the coffee on the Formica table between us. “Whatever, just have it written up and I’ll sign it.”
We sit in silence another minute, a million thoughts blowing through my still-aching head as I try and begin to wrap my mind around what’s going on.
“So, now what,” I mumble, looking up at him.
“Now we should probably get back to LA and face the music.” He makes a face. “I haven’t even turned my phone back on, but I’m sure I’ve got about a million messages.”
I give him a look. “Right, cause you’re famous.”
Austin grins. “You know, if you’d turned on the television once or twice in the last two years, you might’ve recogni-”
“Okay, okay,” I grumble, rubbing my temples. “Can we leave Las Vegas now? I think we’ve done quite enough damage for one trip.”
He smirks. “You don’t want to stay another day and see if we can top last night?”
I roll my eyes, suppressing the grin on my face. “Unless you want to knock over a casino or murder a stranger, I don’t think that’s going to be possible.
Austin leans back in the booth across from me, lacing his hands behind his head. “Hey, you know, you could be a murderer and I’d never know it.” He shrugs, grinning at me irritatingly. “I mean, I’m taking a real risk here getting back in a car with you.”
I give him a look as I slide out of the booth and stand shakily. “Tiny violins, buddy.”
He laughs as he drops some cash on the table and stands, offering me an arm. “So, now we go play the part then. Ready, dear?”
* * *
I stare out the window at Vegas receding into the background in the side window. Well, so, that happened. Somehow I’ve jumped from whatever my sham life was with Vince to the biggest sham I can imagine - legally married to the most infuriating man on the planet. Legally married, even though it’s fake - even though he’s paying me $500,000.
He wasn’t infuriating when he was just some gorgeous stranger in a bar whom you kissed like a crazy person.
And I hate the thought that comes to my mind, but there it is, with a finger right in my face. Because the biggest sham of all might be me trying to convince myself that being around Austin Taylor is the worst thing ever.
Because really, it might not be that bad at all.
I scowl at the traitorous thought as we speed through the desert back to LA - back to the real world, back to my new world as Mrs. Austin Taylor.
12
Austin
For some reason, the ride back to the real world outside the glitter and tinsel of Vegas seems to take three times as long as it took to get here. And it could be that I’m still epically hung over from the frankly inhuman amount of tequila and champagne I consumed last night, but I get the feeling it’s more than that.
Maybe it’s what happened in Vegas sure as shit isn’t going to stay there.
Because what happened in Vegas is glittering on her finger like an obnoxious little reminder, catching every fucking ray of afternoon sun through the windshield and reflecting it right into my eyes. What happened in Vegas is slumped in the seat next to me - sexy as sin in that little white dress, but scowling out the window like she wishes she could just stay back there.
And of course, there’s the other distraction - the distracting fact that my Vegas souvenir is fucking gorgeous. Even scowling, and sullen with her face to the window like that, she just radiates this hot sort of energy that has me glancing at her every quarter mile.
The dress she’s wearing from the night before is hiked high on her thigh, showing a dangerously distracting amount of her toned leg. One strap of her dress hangs halfway down her shoulder, and though it might look disheveled or sloppy on any other girl in the world, it somehow just looks fucking great on her - like this little touch of character that sets her apart.
She’s got a finger from one hand stuck between her perfect, soft lips - chewing at the nail as she stares out the window with those big blue eyes. As I glance over, her other hand comes up and brushes a stray lock of hair back from her face to tuck it behind her ear.
And that damn ring glints right at me - that huge, gaudy, absurdly extravagant ring.
I make a mental note to check in with my credit card company and see exactly what I paid for that fucking thing.
And it should get me furious. I should still feel like I got fucking taken for a ride here. But a little tough when I know the truth of it is that she got taken for as big of a ride as I did.
I smirk to myself. Or DIDN’T get taken for a ride, as we’ve established with the unopened condoms.
The irony here is that for all of the wild, insane, x-rated porn-star shit I’ve pulled with hundreds of girls over the years, this one’s a first. This is something new.
Marriage.
I could almost laugh out loud right there in the car like an insane person.
Hell, I’ve done literally everything else when it comes to women - every damn crazy, acrobatic, or chauvinistic fantasy you can think of? Yeah, done it.
Twice.
But this is a new one, and one that sure as shit wasn’t ever on my bucket list.
I married a girl. Not fake-married, but real, actual, legally-binding married.
And I don’t remember a goddamn thing about it.
There are glimpses, of course, but they’re really just emotions that come swirling back through my head like watercolors more than actual memories.
And on the bright side, at least they’re happy emotions. I can remember feeling like everything was goddamn perfect last night. I can remember feeling like I’d won something bigger than any championship, or Super Bowl ring, or endorsement.
Yeah, cause you were stoned and drunk out of your mind, idiot.
It’s a fair point, but I want to believe - or at least hope that it’s something more than that.
Natalie turns suddenly, totally busting me right as I was checking her out, and she glares at me.
“What?”
I shake my head and turn back to the endless desert highway in front of me. “Nothing.”
“Well, quit staring at me.”
I laugh. “You know what, I’ll stare all I want. First of all, you’re my wife-”
“Fake wife.”
I turn and wink at her. “No, princess.” I grin at her, almost laughing at how scowling and pissed off she is at me, like actually marrying her was my evil plan all along or something.
Please.
I blow her an air kiss. “That piece of paper in my jacket pocket says it’s pretty real, actually.” I grin. “I mean, at least in the opinion of the State of Nevada.”
She groans. “God, you kept it?”
“The wedding license?” I make a face. “Well of course I did, dear. For our scrapbook of course!”
She glares right back at me and I blow her another kiss. “Doing okay over there darling?”
“That’s going to get old real fast, you know.”
I laugh, seeing that pouty little scowl still etched across her face.
“Get used to it, sweet cheeks,” I say with a grin. “Oh, and I like my dinner at seven sharp, just so you know.”
Natalie barks out a laugh. “You’d better be kidding.”
I shrug. “Well, you are my wife, and I
guess I’m just an old-fashioned kinda guy.”
“You’re going to be the kind of guy who finds poison in his food if you keep that up.”
I laugh, reaching over to flick on the radio. “There’s my loving bride.”
She rolls her eyes and turns back to the window as I crank up the Creedence Clearwater and stomp on the gas. “Happy honeymoon, princess.”
13
Austin
Natalie keeps that petulant little frown on her face all the way into LA, all the way, in fact, until I start to take the car up into the Hollywood hills to the house I bought three months ago.
She suddenly turns to me. “Jesus, you live here?”
“The hills? Yeah, why?”
“More of a movie-star neighborhood, isn’t it? Don’t you play sports?”
I snort. “Football; I play football.” I shake my head. “You know, now that you’re married to the NFL’s number one quarterback, you should probably start watching some Sports Center or something.”
“Yeah, pass.”
I shrug as I take the car around a corner and accelerate up the hill. “Well, if you did, you’d know that I’m making more than most of the movie stars in this ‘movie-star’ neighborhood right now.”
Natalie rolls her eyes. “I do not want to know.”
“Sure you do. Hell, the contract was all over ESPN anyways.”
She shakes her head. “I really don’t want-“
“Forty million.”
She whirls back to me as I suddenly pull us into the driveway that leads up to my place, her mouth wide open.
“You married pretty good, princess,” I say with a grin as I park the car at the top of the driveway.
Natalie’s halfway to the front door of the place when the ferocious sound of Buckley - my mutt of a lab - comes bellowing through the door. Her hand is on the doorknob when I suddenly lurch out of the car.
“Whoa! Hang on, Buckley’s not always the friendliest to new-”
The door pops open, Buckley comes flying out, and…
And he stops, wags his damn tail, and flops over onto his back panting - fucking putty in her hands.
Jock: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Page 60
