Hitched (Hearts of Stone Book 2)

by Christine Manzari

  Everything was so…fuzzy.

  This was so bad.

  Part of me wanted to shake the man awake and demand an explanation, but the more pragmatic part of me didn’t want to know. I couldn’t allow myself to make mistakes like this and risk marring my reputation. Not if I wanted serious consideration for a good internship. Not if I wanted to land a real position in the journalism world one day. I had applications to fill out and classes to take, I didn’t have time to deal with drunken decisions and fake marriages. I wasn’t the crazy girl who chased guys and a good time. I wasn’t the bad girl who drank until she passed out. I was the girl who aced classes and killed the fucking bell curve. I was the good girl, and good girls didn’t sleep with strangers. They certainly didn’t marry strangers. Even panty-dropping, sexy ones.

  I shook my head in disbelief. This was just a mistake. A misunderstanding. There was no way an actual marriage happened. Surely it was just a joke, and the sooner I got my ass back to my own room, the sooner I could forget last night ever happened. Whatever that entailed. This was just like the time Willow accidentally scraped the car in the parking spot next to us at the grocery store when she was backing up. There was just a little scratch and even though I told her to find the owner, she said he’d never notice. We left, and no one was the wiser. Except for my guilty conscience.

  This situation was the same. It was just a little scratch and it needed to be abandoned and forgotten. Because there was no way anyone would perform a marriage for someone who was as drunk as I must have been last night. I would remember if it actually happened. This ring on my finger? It was probably bought in a souvenir shop as some kind of touristy joke. I mean, it’s not like I could get legitimately married overnight. I’d have to have a marriage certificate. I’d remember saying “I do.” Wouldn’t I?

  Making up my mind, I slipped out of bed as quietly as possible, stepping on a used condom in my haste. My stomach lurched in disgust. Well, that was the one good sign so far. At least whatever I’d done had been safe. I reached down to peel the slimy latex off and tossed it in the trash can next to the desk. There were several other wrappers and used condoms already in the basket. That really made me want to vomit. Spurred on by the need to escape my mountain of mistakes, it only took me a few seconds to find most of my clothes and purse. I couldn’t locate my bra and decided it was a small casualty in the battle for my dignity. Desperate to get away from the evidence of my bad decisions, I was dressed and hurrying out the door in less than a minute.

  I squinted my eyes against the sudden brightness and was surprised to realize that the hallway looked familiar. I was still in the Bellagio. I didn’t know if it was good or bad luck that the stranger’s room was in the same hotel as mine, but thankfully, my walk of shame would be short-lived. After a few stumbling attempts, I found the elevators and pressed the call button as I typed out a quick text to my sisters.

  Me: I’m fine. I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’m already in the hotel.

  Willow: Thank fuck. Where the hell were you? You do realize you’ve been missing for HOURS? We thought you were dead!

  Me: Sorry. I’ll explain in a few.

  Marlow: I can tell this is going to be good.

  The elevator door opened, and as I got inside I pulled the ring off my finger, stuffing it deep in my purse. Out of sight, out of mind. It wasn’t even a real wedding ring anyway. As long as I never told anyone about waking up in a stranger’s room, it would be like last night never happened.

  — TRACE —

  4. THE BLOCKHOUSE

  August 5, 2016

  TRACE STONE IS BACK IN TRAINING, BUT WILL HE COMPETE? By National Sports Network

  The Blockhouse training facility in Tahoe has welcomed back its most famous athlete and he plans to stay for the next three months. A spokesman confirmed that Trace Stone returned to his off-season training last week, and since then, The Blockhouse has been booked solid with young fans hoping to catch sight of their favorite superstar. This is his first formal training since his surgery this past winter.

  “The Blockhouse is our main playground at the facility,” said Josh Barnes who is in charge of scheduling and rentals. “With resi pits, trampolines, ramps, and indoor skate parks within walking distance of the main chairlift for the Boreal Mountain Resort, our facility is the perfect place for athletes to work on new skills before taking them to the slopes. We offer great cross training options in the off-season. Trace has been using this facility for years, and he always draws a big crowd when he’s in residence even though he reserves The Blockhouse to train privately.”

  Barnes declined to give any details about Stone’s workouts. There has been news, however, that Stone’s comeback is not going as well as hoped.

  “He’s not tearing it up like usual,” admitted Seth Jones, one of the athletes training with Stone. “I don’t know if it’s his knee or his head, but he’s just not hitting it anymore.” When asked if he thinks Stone will be ready for the X-Games this winter, Jones replied, “If not, he can go with me as my coach.”

  Are the rumors true? Are Trace Stone’s competitive days over? Is it time he considered a coaching position?

  =========================

  Time to retire and coach at twenty-one years old? Seth had better not even think about coming to The Blockhouse today. I will fucking crush that asshole. I knew he was capable of dick moves, but he’d never made one this epic before.

  Tossing my workout bag to the side against the wall, I took a deep breath, the familiar smell of the room reminding me of some of my best memories. I’d had all of my important breakthroughs in The Blockhouse, and now I was facing some of my worst fears and biggest challenges. I no longer had any pain in my knee, but as this week of workouts had shown me, I wasn’t as good as I once was. And I didn’t know if I ever would be again.

  It might help if I could get my head back in the game. That night in Vegas was supposed to be just a couple of drinks and maybe a little tongue wrestling with the pretty girl I met at the fountain. Instead, I woke up to a trash can full of used condoms, an abandoned bra (which I kept, of course), and a debilitating hangover that took all day to recuperate from. Oh, and let’s not forget the pesky problem of the wedding band on my finger and the lovely package from the wedding chapel I found on the desk—a marriage certificate and a shitload of pictures of my new wife and me. Harlow, the girl from the fountain, was the owner of the other name on the marriage certificate. My thumb ran along the back of my ring finger even though it was now naked. I’d taken the wedding band off after I found myself alone in the room the next morning, but I could still feel the ghost of it—a promise unfulfilled.

  Now what was I supposed to do? Did she realize we were legally married? Did she care? Why did she leave without saying goodbye? And, if it had been her room I woke up in, would I have done the same and run off the first chance I got? I honestly didn’t know the answer.

  Even though I wasn’t used to drinking, especially not as much as I had in Vegas, I still had vivid memories of everything that had gone on that night. Very vivid memories. Let’s just say that even though Harlow ran out on me before I woke up, she’d been a regular visitor to my dreams since that night. I’ll even admit she’d made a guest appearance or two in my showering ritual. I won’t even apologize for that.

  I didn’t understand how I kept getting myself in situations like this. I’d always had an impulsive streak and an addiction to spontaneity, but those traits usually served me well on the mountain. Split-second decisions, committing to risks, surviving the tough spots—those were my strengths. That’s why I was so good at snowboarding.

  However, whenever I let impulse and whim have free reign in my personal life, that’s when I made truly horrible decisions. Take Bridget for example. A careless hookup with the girl my brother introduced as one of his clients turned into a disaster when I found out later that she was his fiancée. They’d been keeping their engagement under wraps because of their work relationship.
Unfortunately, that was about all Bridget kept under wraps. Before I knew she belonged to my brother, I asked her out and the night ended up with her dress on the floor and her naked body wrapped around me like she was some kind of fucking octopus.

  Bridget and Harlow; my two biggest fuck-ups. The difference between them? A night with Bridget didn’t inspire a trash can full of used condoms. She was one and done. I guess Harlow was just special like that.

  I rubbed my forehead as if I could rub the thoughts clean out of my mind. I needed to start my training and stop thinking about Harlow and the night in Vegas. This place left me frustrated enough as it was. No need to add a case of tent-pitching into the mix.

  Plugging my iPod into the sound system, I cranked up the volume until the walls of the Blockhouse skate park were nearly shaking from the bass. Then I grabbed my practice board, determined to clear my head. I didn’t care what it took, I’d show the doubters that Trace Stone was ready for a comeback. And in the meantime, I’d get Harlow out of my system one way or another.

  — HARLOW —

  5. DAIRY, DAIRY, QUITE CONTRARY

  August 28, 2016

  RUNAWAY BRIDE By Harlow Ransom

  Harlow Ransom has been having a streak of bad luck since returning from Vegas. She’s been home for a month, but she still hasn’t found an internship for the fall. Also, she discovered that her credit card had numerous charges that were made late on the night of her birthday and during the early hours of the day after. She’s had to dig deep into her savings to pay off the credit card bills which included the purchase of a men’s platinum wedding band, as well as $777 for an Elvis Pink Caddy Wedding Ceremony—whatever the hell that is.

  At some point, she’ll have to tell her father the news about her inability to get an internship and she isn’t looking forward to his response. She also knows that she won’t be able to hide the fact that her savings account is seriously depleted. She might be in the clear if she can come up with a good excuse, she just needs time to figure out what it is.

  “My dad never fails. He’s highly motivated, and once he sets his sights on a goal, he achieves it. That’s how he became the Commander of his own Navy SEAL team. I think the only thing he’s ever failed at was taming my mother. That’s probably why he expects so much from me,” Harlow said. “He doesn’t want to see me end up like her. I’m beginning to wonder if he might be too late.”

  Despite her recent shortcomings and failures, Harlow is determined to move on from the disastrous one-night stand she had in Vegas. When asked about that night and how she was a modern-day runaway bride, she laughed, albeit nervously. “That night was so long ago, it’s like it never happened.”

  =========================

  Classes would start in less than a week, and I wasn’t ready. I had no internship, and my savings account was dangerously close to receding to the double digits. My only hope was to work my ass off during the upcoming semester to pay off my debt and hope that I could scrounge up an acceptable internship for the spring.

  In the meantime, I’d been putting in as many hours as possible at The Dairy, a job I’d had since my freshman year. The ice cream there was so amazing it should be illegal. Seriously. I had the best job on campus.

  “Harlow, can you handle it out front here on your own?” Betty asked. “I’ve got to do some paperwork in the back.”

  “Sure.” I settled in next to the register, sliding my Kindle onto the counter so I could read. We’d just opened up, and it was only ten in the morning. Sweet tooth urges didn’t normally strike until lunch time. The mornings were always slow as a result, aside from the occasional coffee order.

  “Are you open?”

  Startled, I glanced up from my Kindle to find the object of my interruption. I was pretty sure my heart dropped clear down to my knees when I recognized the person standing on the other side of the counter. I could feel my mouth opening and closing like there were words coming out, but all that I heard was complete silence.

  In front of me stood one of the most attractive guys I’d ever seen in my life. The guy I met in Vegas. A guy I never expected to see again. How was it possible that he was here, thousands of miles from where we met? It had been a month since I’d seen him, and to be honest, my memories of him hadn’t done reality justice. Maybe it was my alcohol addled recollections, but I didn’t remember him being so freaking gorgeous. His dark hair stuck up haphazardly and was dyed blue at the tips. His eyes were a golden color, freezing me in place like he had some sort of mind-melding super powers. Tan skin, a scar on his chin, and a half-smile completed the package.

  Trace. That was his name.

  I think.

  And he was the last person I expected, or wanted, to be standing in front of me. It had been weeks, and I was finally starting to breathe easily and forget about the morning after my birthday. What is he doing here?

  “Can I help you?” I finally managed to ask.

  “That depends,” Trace answered. “But I’m hoping you can.”

  “What do you need?”

  “I need to talk to my wife.”

  Holy fuck. Did my heart just explode? I was pretty sure it did. I gripped the edge of the counter as what was left of my heart hammered against my ribs. I never expected Trace to come looking for me, and I had no idea how to make him go away. I looked behind me quickly to make sure Betty wasn’t within hearing distance.

  “I think you have the wrong person,” I gritted out between my teeth.

  The smile that creased his lips was nothing short of naughty. “You want to do this the hard way?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m looking for my wife, Harlow Ransom. That’s you.” He pointed at me.

  I stood up a little straighter, as if that could somehow deflect his words. “That’s my name, but I’m not your wife.”

  “I beg to differ,” he replied, putting his left hand on the counter where I could see a silver band shining reproachfully from his ring finger. “I have a piece of paper that says you are. And if that’s not enough for you, we can go ahead and do the whole Cinderella glass slipper thing just to be sure it’s the right fit.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. There had to be some way to make him go away. Forever.

  Trace reached behind his back, sliding a messenger bag across his chest. He lifted the flap and reached inside. When he pulled out his hand, my missing bra was dangling from his fingertip. “Do you want to try it on to be sure? Because I’m fine with that, I don’t mind watching. I can guarantee you it’s a perfect fit, though. No matter how much I drank that night, my memory isn’t that bad.”

  “Harlow, honey, have you seen the invoice for the cold beverages?” I heard Betty ask as she approached from the back.

  I reached out and grabbed the bra from Trace and stuffed it into a to-go bag before Betty could see it. Trace’s smile was gloriously satisfied.

  “Oh,” Betty said in surprise when she came through the store room door. “I didn’t realize we had a customer.”

  “I’m almost done,” I told her. “I’ll come back and get the invoice for you once I get his ice cream.” I maneuvered behind the glass case, fumbling around until I managed to force my shaking hands to get a cone.

  Betty looked at Trace with an odd expression. “Ice cream this early, dear?”

  “I couldn’t wait any longer, ma’am,” he replied. “I’ve been craving this for weeks.”

  Betty nodded knowingly. “It isn’t the best in the state for nothing. What flavor did you get?” Betty always wanted to know what flavor people chose.

  Trace looked at me, and I answered for him. “Fear the Turtle,” I said. I grabbed a scooper and started viciously digging out scoops of the white chocolate ice cream.

  “One of my favorites,” Betty sighed. “I love pecans and caramel.” She returned to the office in the back, and I shoved the cone across the glass case toward Trace. There were three enormous scoops of ice cream balan
ced precariously on top of one another.

  “Fear the Turtle?”

  “You have to go. I’m working.”

  “Actually, you were reading. I can’t believe they pay you to read.” He shook his head like he was embarrassed for me.

  I glared at him as he licked along the edge of the cone, flattening his tongue along the melting cream. His lips closed around the soft mound and captured the renegade drips as he sucked them into his mouth. My memory was suddenly bombarded with visions of his head between my legs as his tongue slid along my skin in the exact same way. I tried to ignore the way the muscles in my pelvis clenched. Trace’s eyes darkened, and he continued to lick the ice cream as if he knew what he was doing to me. I crossed my arms in defiance. I didn’t care how sexy he was or how my body begged for a repeat of our night in Vegas. Trace had to go. His presence could bring nothing but trouble.

  “Harlow,” Betty called from the back. “Almost done?”

  “Coming,” I called back to her before turning to face Trace again.

  “I can make that happen,” he offered.

  I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion.

  “Make you come,” he explained.

  Oh my God. His tongue was nearly fucking the ice cream cone. And my down under was starting to beg for a little thunder.

  “It’s on the house,” I said, nodding at his treat. “Please don’t come back.”