by Julia Kent
“That’s not how you drink water,” I explain. How drunk is she?
“I cannot have Donald Trump all over my breasts!” She takes a corner of a sheet and rubs furiously at her chest, her tits bouncing. It’s a delightful sight. I start to tent my pink silk bathrobe.
“Who were you talking to?” she asks as she rubs. I imagine her rubbing hand on a part of me that loves to be rubbed.
And I’m hard.
“Brona. My main person here at Litraeon. We’re moving.”
Amanda pauses. “We’re what?”
“In an hour. We’re getting a better suite.”
“Why?”
“Because this one is a mess.”
Because I can’t handle being surrounded by signs that I lost control last night and holy hell are we really married?
Keeping my mouth shut is my primary business skill. I don’t speak that random thought. I’m not stupid.
“Then get someone to clean it.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t stand to wait that long.”
“You’d rather move?”
“It’s easier.”
“Where are we going?”
“Next door.”
“Next door? Why?”
“So we can do some corporate espionage.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“You’re orange and you’re judging me?”
“You’re orange too, buddy. Go look in the mirror.”
She points to the bathroom.
Every bit of the room goes into soft focus, my eyes only on her. In the craziness of this morning, I haven’t really looked at her. For five days she’s been all I touch, all I see, all I feel and want to feel. We’ve spent these days in Vegas in a vortex of sex and damage control. Shannon and Declan’s wedding damage control. Between media reports and PR tracking and press inquiries and thousands of personal and professional messages that have eaten up nearly every waking hour of my time, the stolen moments with Amanda have been entirely about sex.
Not that I’m complaining.
I cross my arms over my chest. The cold metal ring registers against my ribs.
Being orange is the least of our worries.
“Amanda.”
The grin she gives me is part pain, part jaunty. “You can’t even look because you know I’m right.”
“Amanda.”
This time, her grin falters, her eyes tip up, looking at me. I take in the bandages on her arms, the curve of one breast against the pillow, the disorienting range of her chest, and the wild hair.
I love every inch of what I see.
“Amanda,” I say again, across the room in a flash, one knee on the bed, then the other, and my mouth is on hers before I realize what I’m doing. The wet sheets twist between us and her hands are under the damn pink silk robe I’m wearing, on my back, flat and imploring, pulling me to her. I wiggle out of the frock. We’re reeling from waking up married. Maybe. We’re half-drunk and hungover and embarrassed and confused.
At least, I am. I suppose I should ask her how she feels, but based on the little moans and sighs coming out of her, I’m guessing she’s not suffering right now.
Sex is easier than talking. Sex is better than working.
Kissing her is better than—
“Coffee,” she whispers.
“Sex is better than coffee?”
“Who said that?”
“You did.”
“No, I didn’t!” She pushes me off her and stands, holding her head between her palms. “I mean, it is. Normally. But not right now.”
Bzzzz.
I grab my phone. Gina.
“Is that a resignation letter from your new admin?” Amanda wanders out into the living room. “Holy shit!” she says, reacting to the mess out there. “Why doesn’t this hotel room have a coffee maker? You own the resort! Make them add coffee makers!”
I thought she was panicking about the sex toy cemetery out there.
“You don’t need to mystery shop our room.”
“I do when your company is so barbaric that they don’t provide coffee makers. You have complimentary bathrobes and you can’t manage coffee?”
Tap tap tap.
Amanda lets out a tiny scream of surprise. “Who the hell is that?” She half-shuffles, half-sprints back into the bedroom, a Cheeto-marshmallow treat in one hand, a glass of water in the other.
“Probably the coffee.” I set my phone on the nightstand and grab a white robe from the closet, shrugging into it. Amanda does the same, only this time she’s wearing the pink robe I left on the bed. She looks exhausted and sweet, all at the same time.
Her face softens. “You ordered me a breve?”
“Of course.” I don’t mention that Brona probably did.
I’m right. Room service appears with a rolling table filled with all of our favorites. Two pre-made breves, a small pot of espresso, a small pitcher of frothed light cream, fruits and baked goods, and scrambled eggs and bacon.
“Coffee’s all I need.” Amanda turns green, which is a good color to go with orange. I motion for the staff person to push the rolling table closer to the door and grab Amanda’s breve. All deliveries to our room come with built-in tips, so within seconds, he’s gone. I sit on the couch and Amanda curls up in front of me, her back to my chest, her long sigh gratifying. As she melts into me, I drink my own fortification and all the thoughts I’ve held at bay come rushing in.
Dad.
The Sultan.
Declan’s resignation.
Acquiring Greg’s mystery shopping company.
A merger in—
“Stop,” she says suddenly.
“Stop what?”
“Worrying about work.”
“How did you know?”
“You roll your shoulders when you’re tense and it’s work-related.”
“You’ve catalogued that?”
“I’m perceptive.”
“Amanda.” Her name trips off my tongue so easily. She snuggles in, draining her breve and setting the empty cup on the end table.
“Yes?”
“A week ago,” I begin. She stills. Her hair’s matted and wet at the ends, and her soft pink lacy bathrobe only half-covers her orange-stained skin. Her eyelashes flutter against her cheekbones and I can hear the soft rasp of her breath as she waits for me.
Talk about control.
“A week ago,” I say more firmly, wondering how to convey the last week’s tumult through the inadequacy of language. “A week ago, I refused to let you love me.”
“You failed,” she says under her breath.
Dark laughter pours out of me, making me choke. She isn’t making this easy.
And yet she is.
“We haven’t really talked.” Isn’t that the woman’s line?
“No. We haven’t. When were we supposed to talk?” She reaches up with her left hand and touches mine.
Our rings clink against each other.
“And then there’s that.” My voice drops as the sentence ends.
Along with my stomach.
“We’re not—you don’t really—we can’t be—”
“Married?”
She laughs, but it’s a brittle sound. “Come on. We didn’t actually have a wedding last night.”
“We didn’t? You’re sure?” I perk up. Great. She remembers last night. I squeeze my eyes and try to recall something—anything—that happened after Declan and Shannon said their goodbyes at the reception last night.
“I’m, well, I mean...” Twisting in my arms, she looks at me with those big, wide, trusting eyes, her left hand splayed against my bare chest, digging in where the robe has separated. “You don’t remember what happened?”
My voice drops with uncertainty.
Hers goes up.
“No.”
“Quit joking.”
“Not joking.”
“We both can’t remember any part of last night?”
Mascara is streaked along the corner of her eye, and any makeup she wore last night currently resides somewhere on my skin or on the bedsheets. I can only imagine what I look like.
Amanda, though, is gorgeous. In my arms and looking at me with a perplexed expression, biting her lower lip while she flips through the filing cabinets of memory in her mind, and—
“I don’t know.”
I sit up. “You’re the fixer.”
“I know! But I remember saying goodnight to Shannon, hugging Declan, and then—poof! Nothing.”
Poof.
“That’s when my memory ends, too,” I say, my skin beginning to crawl. “I know one thing: we did not have a foursome.”
“And I soooooo did not sleep with Josh. He’s gay. The man can’t handle watching a birth video. A real-life vagina would send him into cardiac arrest.”
“I know my heart pounds whenever I see yours,” I whisper. She gives me a reluctant smile, in spite of her hangover.
“That was baaaaaad,” she groans.
“All signs point to the sex question being put to rest. Worst case, all we did was sleep with each other,” I note.
“Worst case? Buddy, sleeping with me is best case. Best case. Always best.”
That was an unfortunate choice of words on my part. Before I can do damage control, she speaks.
“What if we are?” she hisses.
“Are what?”
Her eyes dart to mine.
“Married.”
Chapter Three
Tap tap tap.
“Who the hell is that?”
Bzzzzz.
“And that?” Amanda jumps off me and walks slowly to the door. I find my phone. It’s Brona.
“Yes?”
“We’re moving you. Just change into whatever you need, Andrew, and the rest is done.”
“Fine.”
“Security reports that your current room will need some conditioning.”
Conditioning is hotel code for a complete overhaul because of crazy partying.
“It’s not that bad.”
“Why is there a nest of baby gerbils in the bathtub?” Amanda screams from the bathroom.
“Ahem,” Brona says.
“Fine. Conditioning.”
“Do I need to call the Humane Society?”
I peer into the bedroom. “Do they take six-foot teddy bears?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes. Call them.” I hang up. Who knows what else the staff will find?
Amanda has let a group of staff inside the room, and with brief nods and blank faces, they pack our belongings.
Ten minutes, fourteen gerbils, one bearded dragon, an unopened five-pound bag of sugar-free gummy penises and twelve half-eaten chocolate dongs later, they leave us with a change of clothes and promise to return shortly to finish.
Tap tap tap.
“That better not be my dad,” I mutter, opening the door.
Worse.
It’s Declan and Shannon.
“Back for more abuse?”
“To receive it or hand it out?”
“Both.”
“Where’s Amanda?” Shannon asks, peering around, her nose wrinkled.
I point to the kitchen. Shannon makes a hasty retreat.
“This is your biggest screw-up yet,” Declan says drolly.
“How was the meeting with the Sultan?”
“There was no meeting. He was kicked out of his suite here and is on his way back to Dubai. Said you ordered him out.”
“WHAT?” Damn it. Brona sent out feelers and signals got crossed.
“Dad says it’s a stroke of genius,” Declan says pleasantly.
“What?”
“Has your vocabulary devolved into the word what?”
“Huh?”
“That’s an improvement. Variety is the spice of life.”
“Says the man who just tied himself to one woman for the rest of his life.”
Dec yanks my hand. I steel myself. He can’t move me an inch.
“People who live in glass wedding rings shouldn’t throw stones, Andrew.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
He laughs. “But it’s funny.”
“What do you mean, Dad thinks accidentally kicking the Sultan out of the Presidential Suite was a stroke of genius?”
“The Sultan’s had too much power in all the negotiations. Being an asshole to him helps reset the balance.”
You have got to be kidding me. Only Dad could take this situation and turn it into a positive.
“Do we get the deal?”
“You figure it out. Dad wants you in Dubai next week.” His eyes land on my ring finger. “Unless you’ll be too busy on your honeymoon.”
“Honeymoon? Why would I—”
He yanks on my ring finger.
“Oh, screw off,” I grumble.
“You’ve always been jealous of me, Andrew, but upstaging my wedding?”
“Upstaging? You think I did this on purpose?” None of this involved volition.
Not mine, anyway.
“Who, exactly, are you married to?”
I go silent.
“You still don’t know?”
More silence.
“What do you remember about last night?”
“Nothing.”
“You drank so much you blacked out?”
I shrug. “If I did, so did Amanda. We can’t remember a damn thing after you and Shannon left your reception.”
“You don’t remember marrying someone?”
“We’re just piecing it all together.”
He shakes his head in disgust. “You partied in college, but nothing like this. It’s not like you.”
We both frown. The staffers return, moving swiftly around us as they pack the rest of our belongings, and I let his words sink in. He’s right. This isn’t like me. I don’t do this. I don’t black out, and I don’t party hard to the point of marrying someone.
Especially potentially marrying one of three different people.
Deeply disturbing thoughts begin to surface inside me. What if we didn’t get drunk last night? What if—
“Amanda seems to be taking this in stride.” Declan tips his chin toward the kitchen, where Amanda is whispering in Shannon’s ear. “And you’re too blasé. How can you both be so calm?”
“Because being calm is my job, Dec.”
He snorts. “Showing up for business meetings is, too.”
“And then there’s that whole Cheeto coochie condition.”
“Cheeto what?”
I wave around my crotch. “You know. She keeps calling it Cheeto coochie.”
“The right drugs can cure that.”
“Don’t talk about my girlfriend’s sweet cave.”
“Her what?” He grabs my jaw and peers at my mouth. “You have Cheeto mouth.”
“I do?” Amanda wasn’t joking.
“Cheeto coochie is contagious.” His eyes drop to my junk.
Reflexively, I cover my crotch with my hands. “My junk is not orange.”
“Oh yeah?”
“What—you want me to show you?”
“Are you two having a penis contest again? Can you just measure and be done with it?” Shannon keeps making this joke. It’s not funny. But if I roll my eyes in front of Declan, he’ll yell at me, and my hangover headache is still in that precarious zone where yelling makes me want to stab my eye with a chopstick.
“Depends. Does Cheeto dust add an unfair advantage to length?” I mutter.
“Cheeto what? Is that a kink?”
“Ask Andrew!”
The sound of running water interrupts the argument. Amanda must be in the shower. I grit my teeth. If the suite were empty, I’d be in there right now. Talking might be awkward, but I can express an incredible amount of emotion in other ways.
And by incredible, I mean—
“Excuse me, Mr. McCormick?”
“Yes?” Declan and I answer in unison as a staffer comes back down the hallway.
“We found this among the gerbils.”
“Gerbils?” Dec’s eyebrows go up.
The staffer holds out his cupped hands, which contain a baby chick.
“I can’t believe this, Andrew.”
Shannon cranes around Declan, trying to get a look. “No kidding!” she chirps. “Where was that?”
“In the bathtub, with the gerbils and the—”
“Security has a report of an unattended fainting goat that is loose in the building as well, sir.”
“A what?” I snap.
“A fainting goat.”
“How do you know it faints?”
“Guests continue to report a dead goat. Surveillance footage shows that it’s just fainting.”
“What a relief,” Dec says. “Because a fainting goat is so much better than a dead one.” He turns to me. “When did your suite become a petting zoo?”
“Shut up.”
I’ve had enough. More than enough. I’m still dehydrated, and there’s not enough headache medicine in the world to take care of my hangover. Add in my brother, the Sultan mess, and a menagerie of animals that are relics from a night I can’t even remember—plus these damn wedding rings—and I’ve had it.
“OUT!”
“That’s not going to work this time,” Declan informs me.
Fine. “Then be useful.”
“How?”
“Meet us for coffee next door.”
He brightens. “At my new chain?”
“At your new—oh, damn it.” I forgot he bought the place. He’s going to be insufferable for a while.
And by “for a while” I mean forever.
“Glad to see you’re admitting it’s better than this place.” He sniffs.
Shannon gapes at him. “You are such a cocky bastard.”
I knew I liked her for a reason.
The carpet is littered with feathers, Cheeto dust, empty liquor bottles, candy wrappers, and small piles of detritus that could be dissected, but are better left untouched. I can’t stand the mess. It distracts me, like an itch. A visual itch that can only be scratched by leaving.
And then I hear it.
Over the noise of the shower running, there’s another sound. Since I was a small child, I’ve had the kind of hearing that drives parents batty. Mom used to say that if working in the family business didn’t pan out for me, I could find a career as a human hearing aid.