The Marriage Mistake_A Billionaire Hangover Romance

by Natalie Knight

  I roll my eyes. Hard.

  “Lock Williams is…I don’t know that you can call what I have with Lock love, Becks.”

  Which is true. I’m not just being frustrating, I fucking swear. How am I supposed to piece together a bunch of half-remembered drunken sexcapades into something resembling love?

  It doesn’t add up. Does not compute. Calculation: failed.

  “He rescued you from the mafia,” Liam reminds me.

  “And he took you to that aquarium,” Mysti May adds. “You nerds love aquariums!”

  “He married you last night, Sams.” Becky squeezes my hands and looks at me pleadingly. “Lock Williams, playboy billionaire marine biologist. Married you. Don’t you think that means something?”

  I shake my head. Not because it means nothing to me…

  But because I don’t know what it means.

  “None of that is love, guys,” I say with a sigh while Weed Monkey swings above us, his joint held between his teeth as he pats his little vest down for a light. “That’s not love, is it? That’s just a series of actions. They don’t necessarily mean anything.”

  “Sammi B.! What is love if not a series of actions carried out with meaning!?” Becky looks like I’m breaking her little romantic’s heart right now, which I hate to do—but I just can’t get with this.

  “I don’t know!” I drag my hands out of Becky’s clutches and run my fingers through my hair. “Love is—love is flowers! Roses and lilies or some shit! It’s fucking communicating—telling each other stuff instead of sending each other on wild goose chases around Bangkok fucking Thailand all day trying to piece together clues.

  “It’s not just getting married, Becks. It’s putting the rings on each other’s fingers so you have proof of it the next morning when you wake up.”

  “I know you don’t mean that, Sammi,” Becky says, looking disappointed at me.

  But she doesn’t have long to look at me like that, because the doorbell to the suite rings, and she has to go and get it.

  “So. Let’s talk planning,” I say, seizing the opportunity to steer the conversation over to literally anything else. “How are we getting this monkey out of the chandelier?”

  “We could—aw, bollocks,” Liam says, cut off mid-sentence by the doorbell again.

  I disregard who the fuck could possibly be needing shit from me right now while I’m busy dealing with Weed Monkey problems—and turn to Mysti May instead.

  “I could put you on my shoulders and you could grab a broom?”

  She chuckles to herself. “Like we used to do at frat parties. Drunk girl jousting! Yeah, that could—oh, what the fuck even?”

  And then Mysti May stomps off too as the doorbell rings. Again.

  “Did you order pizza or something?” I ask Ladyboy Celine Dion.

  She shakes her head. “You don’t order Thai pizza before you’ve smoked the weed. Trust me.”

  So, there I am. Staring up at the monkey. Watching it stare back down at me. Standing in the living room of the suite with Ladyboy Celine Dion, our metaphorical dicks in our hands.

  And that’s when I hear it.

  Becky Black’s smug little voice.

  “Hey, Sammi…come here.”

  “I’m busy, Becks!” I yell back. “Why?”

  “Because, ya dumb slut! You’re gonna want to see this.”

  Chapter 36

  Sammi

  4:37 PM SATURDAY

  I slump down the hall, breathing out a huge huff of air like I’m about to blow wind against Becky’s sails.

  The first thing that happens as I do is my phone rings. I check the caller ID—Eggs.

  I don’t fucking answer it, because if I do, I’m going to say something that I’ll regret. There’s too much anger there. Too much resentment.

  When I talk to Eggs again, I’m going to be calm. I’m going to be cool.

  And I’m going to say something that’s going to fucking destroy him, because that’s what he deserves.

  The second thing that happens as I approach the door to the suite is that I see it: a fucking pile-up.

  Three Thai delivery boys bearing gifts with Mysti May, Becky, and Liam all wearing the world’s most self-satisfied grins on their faces.

  “Okay,” Becky says. “So, here’s the deal. This order…”

  She waves Delivery Boy #1 over and pinches his cheek in a way that makes him blush. He’s carrying a bouquet of lilies—my favorite—with a card attached.

  Which I reach for, and Becky promptly plucks away just before my fingers close around it.

  “This order,” she begins again, looking so smug I wanna smack her, “was placed the day you announced your engagement to Eggsy—the shithead.”

  “Who from?” I ask.

  Becky clears her throat, then reads from the card: “Sammi—You’re marrying a wanker who doesn’t deserve you, but you’ll be a smokin’ hot bride. If you need anyone to object last minute while you stand at the altar, I’ll be there. Yours, Lock.”

  Delivery Boy #1 hands me the lilies and Becky deposits the card on top. She’s lucky that the lilies leave my hands full…

  Or else I’d be tempted to actually smack her.

  “Typical Lock,” I say, shaking my head. “He sent me flowers as an excuse to be disapproving about my choice in men.”

  “Which turned out to be right,” Liam reminds me. “Show her what’s behind door number two, love.”

  Impossibly, Becky’s smile gets even more smug as she beckons forward Delivery Boy #2.

  “This order,” she announces, “was placed at seven last night. Presumably at the beginning of Lock’s meeting with Eggs at that ladyboy bar.”

  Delivery Boy #2 stacks a second massive bouquet of flowers atop the first. Black roses—oh, this should be rich.

  Once again, Becky does the honors, grabbing the card before I can see it.

  “Sammi—If you haven’t talked to me yet today, do. And if you’re still marrying that shithead, don’t. It’s important. Yours, Lock.”

  “Drama queen,” I say, but even I’m a little touched by this.

  These flowers weren’t gloating.

  These flowers were a contingency plan.

  “He was going to tell you, Sams.” Becky looks suddenly sincere. “He didn’t want you to marry Eggs without knowing.”

  “Okay, okay,” I relent. “So what’s behind door number three?”

  Becky’s big smug smile returns, and I immediately regret asking.

  “This one’s my favorite,” she says, beckoning forward Delivery Boy #3.

  “Card?”

  “No card,” Becky says.

  Delivery Boy #3 is holding only a little blue box.

  “Open it, darlin’,” Mysti May urges.

  I shift the flowers over to Myst and take the box in my hands.

  My fingers are trembling.

  I know what must be inside.

  “When did—”

  “Early this morning,” Becky says with a little nod.

  Now it feels like my whole body is shaking.

  It was never about the flowers. I have to admit that now. It was never about having a ring on my finger, either.

  It was never about anything other than being too fucking afraid to accept what I’m always too drunk to remember.

  I’m in love with Lock.

  I might have been in love with Lock for a very long time.

  But I’m an idiot, and I’m an asshole. Faced with something so slippery and intangible as love, I wanted to hold out until I had something solid. Evidence or data or a fucking checklist with all the boxes ticked off.

  And now, being presented with all that shit…

  Fuck.

  I’m in love with my husband.

  God fucking dammit.

  My fingers slip as I fumble with the box, trying to open it.

  I’m terrified to discover what’s inside…

  And I’m excited, too.

  I pry the box open slowly, holding m
y breath…

  “Uh, guys?”

  Percy’s voice carries down the hallway, and I pause, grateful for one more moment before the full reality of my life comes crashing down on me.

  “Kinda having a moment right now, Perce!” Becky yells back at her.

  “Yeah, that’s like, cool and stuff. It’s just…”

  Percy’s bubblegum pink head pokes out into the hall.

  Shit.

  She actually looks fucking concerned.

  “Three big black cars just pulled up outside, and a bunch of dudes with guns just got out of it. So, uh.”

  My heart drops into my stomach.

  I grab Becky by the arm.

  “We need to move away from the door.”

  So, Becky, Liam, Mysti May, a dozen white lilies, two dozen black roses, three delivery boys and I rush down the hall to join Percy, Ladyboy Celine Dion, and a joint-smoking monkey in the living room…

  Just in time to narrowly avoid the Bangkok mafia kicking down the door.

  Men with guns pour into the room, and for once, it’s not my dumb ass on the line for a change.

  Instead, we all move protectively around Percy, whose pink hair is starting to look less like a big dumb mistake and more like a half-assed attempt to conceal her identity…

  Or a target.

  Because if she thought changing her hair color would change the heart of the mafia don…

  It didn’t fucking work.

  I open my mouth to tell him, You know what? Fuck off. Forcing his way into a private hotel room with all these gun-wielding mafiosos might be how things work in his world, but we’re Americans, dammit. Even if he did successfully kidnap, murder or—god forbid—marry Percy—we have one of the most rabid, sensationalized medias in the goddamn world.

  He might not care about dealing with the police or the legal system or the government, but the second a major news organization gets hold of this particular story, his ass is grass—and not the kind that the monkey dangling from the chandelier is smoking, either.

  At the same time, he opens his mouth. Probably to continue his monologue from earlier—that if he can’t have Percy, no one can. Lots of guns, much shoot, yadda yadda, et cetera, marry me or else.

  It’s so fucking predictable that not even the fear of being riddled with bullets is gonna stop me from rolling my eyes at it all right now.

  But before either of us says anything, something funny happens.

  The monkey—this damn fucking monkey upon whom I’ve low-key been placing the blame for all my fucking problems—the Weed Monkey makes the strangest happy little chattering noise and swings down from the chandelier…

  Right into the mafia don’s arms.

  And into the mafia don’s open mouth…

  The monkey places its joint.

  So, we’re staring at the mafia don with baited breath, feeling pretty what the fuck and wondering what the hell he’s going to do next.

  And the mafia don is staring back at us…with pretty much the same expression on his face.

  At some point, one of the mafiosos has the bright idea to whip out a lighter and set the joint aflame…

  And just like that, the tension dissipates.

  “You found my monkey!” the mafia don exclaims.

  And damned if he doesn’t take that fucking monkey into his arms and hug the little bastard tight.

  I’ll be honest…at that point, I’m out.

  I head out to the balcony—the same balcony where Lock and I fucked last night. The last twenty-four hours have been so fucking insane that I’m having trouble taking it all in.

  It’s insane the way that twenty-four hours can change your entire fucking life. That you can lose the man who’s supposed to be the love of our life…and meet your soul mate, all within the course of one day.

  That you can squirt on the face of a mafia don, be kidnapped by his men, get rescued by said soul mate, and then—some-fucking-how—reunite him with his long-lost, card-counting, weed-stealing monkey companion, narrowly avoiding a villanous monologue—a fate worse than death…

  “Hey,” Becky says, coming out on the balcony and standing next to me. She leans on the rail at my side and nudges me gently with her elbow.

  When I follow her gaze, I realize something insane.

  The little blue box Lock sent me is still unopened in my hands.

  And—shit. Lock. Last time I saw him, I pushed him into the Chao Phraya…another fate worse than death.

  “You gonna open it?” Becky asks.

  My shoulders rise and fall as I take a big breath and release it again.

  “Yeah,” I admit. “I have to…even though I already know what’s inside.”

  “You don’t know specifics, though,” Becky says with a sly little grin. “Maybe he’s surprised you.”

  “Maybe,” I say, smiling back at her.

  For once, I don’t even want to slap her for it.

  I run my thumb over the edge of the box, thinking it over. But first…

  “We need to talk to that monkey,” I say, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her back in.

  Inside, the Bangkok mafia seems to be partaking heavily in Ladyboy Celine Dion’s weed…and Ladyboy Celine Dion as well, for that matter. She’s giggling as she’s passed around from one gangster to the next, being felt up and kissed on to her heart’s content.

  Mysti May looks pretty let down, but honestly…Mysti May needs to stop falling in love with everyone she hooks up with when she’s drunk.

  I approach the mafia don with a little fire burning in my chest. I know what I have to do next—with Lock and the little blue box and my life and everything. But before that happens…

  I bow to the monkey.

  “I’ve figured it out,” I inform the little primate bastard. “I’ve remembered everything. And…” I groan. “I’m in love with Lock Williams. Okay? I’m admitting it. So…can I please have my award back?”

  The monkey sits back on the mafia don’s shoulder, looking pleased with himself. The mafia don, on the other hand, looks confused as fuck—and I give the dude a tired shrug.

  You and me both, sister.

  Appeased, the monkey nods his head and points his finger. I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe the first of the last sighs of relief I’ll have to breathe today.

  That is, until I see where the monkey’s finger is pointing.

  “Oh, god, no,” I sob.

  Because over there in the corner, just beneath that sticky, smelly pile of ping-pong balls… I see the faintest glimmer of the award I received last night.

  “I’d let it go if I was you, babe,” Becky says, patting me on the shoulder sympathetically.

  “Yeah…I-I’m good. Can you guys hold down the fort here?”

  I look at the faces of my BFFs, and they all smile and nod.

  Fucking good. For the first time in the last twenty-four hours, it looks like everything might finally be alright.

  I tuck the little blue box in the pocket of my skirt and run out the door.

  He might hate me. He might fucking despise me. And I’d put good money on him not smelling too great…

  But I’m in love with Lock Williams.

  And a woman never gives up on her husband.

  Chapter 37

  Lock

  4:37 PM SATURDAY

  I take it all back. I’m actually hoping that she doesn’t call.

  Fuck it. Fuck it all.

  I really don’t know why I thought things would have been different this time around. For the last three years, it’s always ended up the exact same way.

  I’m like the walking definition of insanity. My name and face are right beside the word in the dictionary at this point.

  And, to top it all off, I’m walking in this incredibly disgusting heat and humidity while smelling of the oh-so-lovely Chao Phraya.

  On a cool day, that would smell bad enough. You throw in the damned heat and humidity, and I could probably kill a mob of kangaroos.

&
nbsp; I’m surprised there are so many boats in the water. How do people tolerate this nastiness?

  Back home, if the water stunk, you leave it the fuck alone. No one wants what comes out of it.

  When I finally return to my hotel to check out, I’m not at all surprised that everyone is moving away from me as if I were Moses parting the Red Sea. Nobody wants to be near Michael Jackson’s pimp who smells like he just crawled out of a hippo’s arse.

  The poor girl behind the counter gets one whiff of me, and she’s reaching for the nearest trash can. I do all I can to make it a painless transaction.

  “Look, I’m sorry, darl. I know I’m rancid. I just want to check out.”

  She calls for some help, but nobody is willing to get much closer than twenty feet.

  I feel bad for the woman. She’s a real trooper, though. We go through everything as quickly as we can for her sake so that I can get out of here.

  I’m making my way out of the hotel when the woman behind the counter yells at me.

  “Sir, what about your possessions in the room?”

  “Don’t worry about it, darl. Consider it a write-off,” I yell back over my shoulder.

  Just like the rest of this fucking trip.

  And boy, has this trip been one large pain in my arse. Even if I were to exclude all of the crazy shenanigans with Sammi and her people, I’ve still lost all my luggage from my room, was forced to dress like a member of Thailand’s worst boy band, and was forced to take a dive into the Chao Phraya.

  I’m barely into my miserable walk back to my boat so that I can leave this damn country when a couple of guys who look like your typical United States frat boys approach me.

  “Hey, man, can you help us? My friends and I are trying to find the Golden Gun. You know where it is?”

  Of course I would get stopped and asked about the Golden Gun.

  I want to throw each of them into the river, but I’m too damn drained and just tell them where to find the place instead.

  “Thanks, dude. And, uh, just a suggestion, but you should take a shower and change. You reek, bro.”