One Wild Night

by Morgan Young

  ONE WILD NIGHT

  A Small Town Sexy prequel novelette

  Morgan Young

  Chapter One

  I wake up, blinking, the little bit of light coming in from under the curtains hurting my eyes. I sit up slowly, and the room spins. I put my hands down on the sheets, trying to right my vision. I had too much to drink last night, obviously. But where am I? What hotel is this? The décor is too glitzy for where I’m supposed to be—all maroons and deep blues—and is that a grand piano in the corner—and are those my panties on them?

  Next to me, I hear a groan, and I look down.

  Holy shit.

  I spring out of bed.

  There’s a man in my bed.

  A very naked man.

  A very handsome, naked man, with abs I could very easily count, or, if I had the inkling, probably iron my entire spring wardrobe on.

  Although I don’t mean to, my gaze lowers. His…situation is situated for sure. And good-sized.

  Oh my word. I never do this. I never have one-night stands in strange hotel rooms with men I don’t know. This is not me. Sure, I’m a sales rep, and I travel all the time for work, but I’m not one of those sales reps. I pull on my business pants and button my shirt all my way to my neck and don’t have wild nights of sex with ripped men in fancy hotel rooms.

  But by the way my body feels this morning…that’s exactly what I did last night. Probably many times. Ugh. My face burns with shame. I don’t even know this guy.

  I look down at myself, feeling the cold air of the air conditioning raise goosebumps on my skin. And when I stand, I realize I’m very naked too.

  I go over to grab my panties from the grand piano and tug them on—at least they were the lacey ones.

  Just then, I hear stirring from the bed, and I freeze.

  “Who…” a low voice begins. “Who are you and what’s going on?”

  I turn around slowly, using my hands to cover myself. “Um…” I debate giving him the wrong name, but it seems a little half-hearted now. “Eliza,” I say. I spot a towel crumpled up on the marble floor, and grab it to cover myself.

  The guy shakes his head, and then squeezes his eyes shut. “Did we….” He motions to himself, and then to me.

  “Based on the fact I woke up naked with you in bed, I think so.”

  He grabs his back. “Damn, girl. You did a number on me.” He winces. “So this is your bed? Your hotel?”

  “No!” I say. “I don’t even know where this is!”

  The man in the bed yanks his boxers off the lamp and pulls them on. “How—how drunk were we last night?”

  “The last thing I remember was stopping to get a hotel in this little town in Kansas….”

  “Which is where I live,” he says. “And I can definitely tell you we’re not in Kansas anymore, sweetheart.”

  We both snort a laugh, and as I adjust my towel, I feel his eyes glide over my body appreciatively, before he lowers them. He’s worried. We both are.

  I stride over to the curtains and throw them open, and my mouth drops.

  “Holy shit,” the man says, coming over to stand next to me.

  Underneath us, there is a riot of color. Of lights. Of people and building.

  We’re in Vegas. Somehow, we ended up in Vegas.

  But it’s not that that makes my mouth drop and my stomach turn.

  “What is this?” I shriek, pointing to my left hand.

  There’s a ring, resting on my fourth finger, with a giant, glistening diamond. The man’s jaw clenches and loosens, and he holds up his own hand—which is sporting a platinum band on his ring finger.

  He stares at me.

  We got married last night.

  Somehow, I met some hot man in some tiny town in Kansas, flew to Vegas, and got married.

  And I don’t even know his name.

  Chapter Two

  “I’m Emerson Banks,” he says.

  We’re sitting at a bar together in the lobby. Apparently the hotel we’re staying at is kind of nice. Like, really nice. Like, we get free drinks just for staying here.

  Which we both need. Hangovers be damned.

  “Eliza Wilkes.”

  “Don’t you mean Eliza Banks?” he asks, and smiles into his gulp of whiskey.

  “Only if you plan to be Emerson Wilkes.”

  “I’ll consider it,” he replies in stride. And I dare say, I kind of like my new husband. We should both seriously be freaking out. But if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry—so I appreciate that he can make me smile.

  I glance down at the ring, posing it for both of us. Judging by the size and clarity of the stone, he drunkenly spent an awful lot of money on me last night. Which I’ll absolutely give back to him, once we get this marriage annulled and get back to our lives.

  Still, he leans over to get a better look. After a moment, he blows out a big breath.

  “That must have been some engagement,” he says.

  “About forty thousand dollars’ worth, I’d guess,” I respond, admiring the sparkle for a moment longer.

  I bring my hand to my lap, and Emerson and I sit in silence together for a moment. I take the opportunity to study him. I figure I’ve earned this, since I apparently married the man last night.

  He has a strong face—he’s a couple days past clean-shaven with a wide, sharp jawline. His nose just the tiniest bit crooked, like maybe he got into a fight when he was young, and his lips are full and soft, and maybe just a bit swollen from kissing. His eyes are a light brown, bordering on hazel.

  He’s a 10. No doubt about it. Damn. Why did I mess up and marry the guy instead of meeting him at a business mixer or something where I could have slipped him my business card? He’s not the type to sleep with and accidentally fly to Vegas with. At all.

  “And what do you do, Eliza?” he asks.

  “I’m in medical sales. Number one in my region.” I say it proudly, because I’m damn proud of myself. I’ve always been good at sales, but I don’t play around, unlike most of my coworkers. I don’t get wasted at sales conferences, I don’t have dalliances on the road, and I take my job seriously.

  Last year, I won an all-expenses paid trip to Paris, and I haven’t even taken it yet. My boss has been begging me to take time off, but I don’t break my stride. There’s no reason to. Right now, I’m on track to retire early.

  He nods. “Impressive.”

  I stir my Bloody Mary with a stick of celery. Maybe hair of the dog isn’t the smartest idea right now, but damn if I don’t need it. This rock is weighing my hand down.

  “And you?” I ask, politely.

  “I own a law firm.”

  I take a sip of my Bloody Mary and close my eyes. “So you can take care of this whole situation we’re in?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” He shakes his head. “I feel like I have to apologize to you, Eliza. I really—this isn’t normally what I do with women. I’m a gentlemen. I don’t fly them to Vegas and marry them the first night I meet them.”

  “I’ve never even had a one-night stand!” I burst out. “I haven’t even been on a real date in six months.” I feel my face burn the moment I say it. I sound like a little bit of a loser. No dating in six months?

  But Emerson just nods and takes another sip of his drink. “I get it,” he says. “I’m too busy with my firm to date much.” He sighs. “I guess this is what happens when I don’t have enough fun, right? I end up in Vegas, married to a beautiful stranger.”

  I laugh, flattered that he called me beautiful. “I guess we’re in the same boat, then.” I smile at him. “So…what exactly are we going to do?”

  He hesitates. “Is it bad that I’m not super excited about heading back to tell everyone I accidentally got married on a drunk Thursday night in Sin City?”
/>
  I shake my head. “Trust me. I’m not going to broadcast this either. All of my coworkers would have a heyday.”

  He sighs. “Well, apparently I got our honeymoon suite for the weekend. What do you say that we make a weekend of it? Sounds like we could both use some time off, and since I already paid for it….”

  I hesitate. Should I really be hanging out with a complete stranger?

  “The doors lock between the rooms,” he offers.

  “When’s the last time I’ve done something totally crazy and spontaneous?” I ask.

  “Last night,” he reminds me.

  I drop my head on the bar.

  “Is that a yes?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  He laughs, and signals the bartender over. “She’ll have another.”

  Chapter Three

  “The sign,” I say.

  “Really?” he narrows his eyes at me. “Just the sign?”

  “Just the sign? It’s iconic!”

  “If you say so.”

  We’re together in the back of a limo—apparently part of the honeymoon package we binged on in our drunken stupor—on the way to the Vegas sign, because Emerson decided to let me choose the first location. It’s apparently not actually in Las Vegas, but a few miles outside. And seeing as how Emerson is the only person I know in the state, he’s my date. Well, sort of. We decided to hang out a little bit. Get to know each other. Maybe to figure out why we decided, in our inebriated states, to pledge our lives and our eternal love to each other.

  The limo driver makes his way through the crowded strip where our hotel is, and I don’t know which way to look. Should we gamble? Should we go to shows? Does Emerson think I’m ridiculous for wanting to see a sign instead of strippers? Is Emerson the kind of guy who would go see strippers in Vegas? I cast a look at him from across the limo. Emerson is actually pretty enough to be a stripper himself.

  Minutes later, we’re standing in front of the sign. It’s only about 25 feet high, and a few palm trees surround it.

  And it isn’t the big, grand sign I was hoping for. It’s not even lit up.

  “So what do you think?” Emerson asks. “Is it everything you ever hoped for?”

  “Um,” I say. “It’s great.”

  Emerson puts his hands on his hips and stares up at it. “It’s a sign, all right.” He whistles. “Is this your idea of a good time, Eliza?”

  I look up at the sign, and glance over at him. He’s holding back a grin. “Well, to be honest, I can barely hold in my excitement.” I say drily. “Wait here a minute.” I run back to the limo and knock on the window, and come back with the driver. I hand him my phone.

  “Can you take a picture of us?” I ask him. “In front of the sign?”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Emerson says. “It’s not a honeymoon unless my new wife and I take tons of pictures.”

  And he says it so honestly, routinely, that for an instant, I wonder if I am his wife. I mean, yes—technically. But I lose my head for a minute, find myself grinning for the picture.

  I’m not sure if it’s the Bloody Mary or the humor of the whole situation, but my headache is dissipating, and suddenly I’m almost having fun, even if the sign is a little underwhelming.

  “Let’s reenact the proposal,” Emerson says, sinking down on one knee, pretending to look up at me with love and admiration. I put my hands over my mouth, pretending to be shocked while the driver snaps a picture.

  For the next photo, Emerson pulls me to my feet and dips me deeply, my dark-brown mess of hair falling behind me. My back cracks loudly, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

  “Okay, now an awkward version,” I say.

  “How awkward?” he asks.

  I watch his face. “Is that a challenge?”

  He nods.

  We take a photo forehead-to-forehead with our fingers interlaced, staring at each other.

  After we’re doing with our impromptu photo shoot, the driver hands the phone back to me. I can’t wait to look through them, and Emerson makes a playful grab for the phone.

  The driver stands there politely, his hat pulled low over his face, until we’re finished and we head back to the limo. “You’re a good couple,” he offers, finally. “I can tell when two people are gonna last, and I think you two got it.”

  We wait until he closes the door and rolls up the partition to start laughing.

  “You know,” Emerson says, “had we not gotten married the first time we met, I think I might want to ask you out on a date, Eliza.”

  My heart speeds up. “Really?”

  He nods. “So what do you say, wifey? Wanna go on an actual date later?”

  “Ew…” I laugh. “Never call me wifey.” He scrunches up his nose, good-natured. Suddenly, he’s shy, like I’ve embarrassed him.

  To be honest, we’ve already spent way too much time together, and not enough time with legal counsel. Still… I was having more fun with him than I’d had in a long time.

  Emerson leans closer. He licks his bottom lip to talk, and I have a flash of memory—an erotic memory of me kissing him. No details around us, just a kiss with his tongue licking my lip, his hand up my dress. My heart immediately responds, pounding and sending a rush of tingles down my body.

  “Just a date,” he offers. “I swear. Nothing else.”

  “Okay,” I agree my voice slightly hoarse. Emerson smiles winningly, and I think he thought I’d refuse. I definitely should have. Instead, I bite back my smile, turning toward the window.

  “Although we should leave our options open,” I add.

  And for his part, Emerson laughs softly and rests back in the seat.

  Chapter Four

  “Wow.”

  I walk into the lobby, dressed in a simple, tight black dress and high heels, and Emerson’s mouth falls open.

  Seeing as how the wasted version of Eliza had only packed seven pairs of panties, condoms, Teddy Grahams, and a toothbrush and toothpaste, I needed some clothes. So Emerson and I parted ways this afternoon for some shopping.

  And for some reason, I’d actually wanted to impress him. It’s not every day a girl goes on a date with her husband. So I’d gone all out on a slim-fitting dress and some long, dangly earrings. I’d pulled my hair up and even went to the mall and got my makeup done. I’m not good at much more than some mascara and lip gloss.

  “I mean, really, wow,” he says. “Easily the most beautiful girl in the place. And that includes the strippers,” he adds in a hushed voice, and we both laugh. Fucking Vegas, of all places. Not where I expected to say I do.

  I know Emerson has already seen what’s under the dress, so it’s nice to hear I can impress him with clothes on. Of course, the only time he can remember is when I was lunging for a towel to cover myself with yesterday morning, when we were figuring out we were married.

  “You look pretty amazing yourself.” And I’m being honest. He’s wearing black pants, shiny shoes, and a crisp white button up. He has a black jacket slung over his shoulder. His brown hair is combed back, but some of it is already falling in his face.

  Without thinking, I step forward to brush it back. When I do, our eyes lock and my heart leaps into my throat. Touching him like that was incredibly intimate. Presumptive. I’m about to apologize when he takes my hand and brings it to his lips to kiss it gently.

  “Can I just say that I am so very happy that you agreed to go on a real date with me?” he says.

  I smile back at him. “It’s like all the pressure’s off,” I say. “It’s not like either of us has to ask where this relationship is heading.”

  “That’s a good point,” he says, holding out his arm for me to take. “I mean, I’ve had to pop six ibuprofen today, so I’m guessing we covered most of the bases last night.”

  I feel myself go red.

  “And maybe the dugout,” he adds. “Parking lot.”

  “Concession stand,” I interject. “There were… several mouth-sized marks.”

  “Oh
?” he asks, looking concerned as he glances at my neck. I put my hand on my throat, and blush.

  “Not there,” I whisper, and he covers his face, lowering it to my shoulder in playful embarrassment. There were, in fact, two well-loved spots on my inner thighs.

  “I apologize,” Emerson says, and holds the door to let me go ahead of him. “That’s not like me. You must have tasted delicious.”

  I open my mouth like he’s outrageously flirtatious, and he crinkles his nose as he laughs.

  “And I hope you don’t mind,” he adds, “but I’ve planned the evening for us.”

  I look up, for some reason surprised. I’m the one who always plans things. I’m sort of used to being in charge.

  “Not at all,” I say. It’s sort of nice to have someone else take the wheel for once.

  “Have you ever seen the fountains in front of the Bellagio?”

  “Have I ever been to Vegas?”

  He laughs. “I have no idea.”

  “I haven’t. Let’s go.”

  The fountains are in walking distance, and so walk down the strip, hand in hand. Emerson keeps checking his watch, and the sun starts to set behind the hotel, making all the lights that much brighter. We stop in front of a huge blue foundation, spanning the length of the majestic Bellagio, but the waters are calm. There are a few other tourists, some with big cameras around their necks, but the night is surprisingly calm. The sky is cloudless and big. A desert sky.

  “They’re about to start,” he whispers.

  I lean into him, and I feel his arm around my waist. For some reason, even though I barely know him, it feels strangely right, standing in front of a big, blue fountain.

  “So, do this often?” I ask.

  “Get married and then take girls on fancy dates?” Emerson asks. “Oh, sure. All the time. Big hobby of mine.”

  “So we have that in common?”

  He grins, showing his even white teeth. “You know what they say.”

  “I don’t know what they say. You’ll have to tell me.”

  He hesitates. “I have absolutely no clue. I was just sort of hoping you’d agree with me.”