Jock Royal (Jock Hard 4)

I thrust my hand in his direction. “Ashley, what is this?”

Does it sound like I’m having a slight panic attack? Because I am. I shake my head, but the ring doesn’t budge.

He’s wearing a ring and I’m wearing a ring.

We’re in Las Vegas.

“It looks like a bloody wedding band—engagement band—I don’t fucking know. Why are we both wearing rings?”

He sounds far less horrified than I do, but then again, he’s probably still half out of it having just been woken out of a deep, hungover sleep.

“Are we still drunk?” Ashley wonders out loud. “Is it still last night?”

Last night.

So many things happened last night.

We began the day off at the pool as we’d planned—after a few rounds of morning sex—lounging around with poolside service and plenty of alcohol under the hot beating-down sun.

Held hands as we lay napping. Kissing. More napping, more alcohol, more food.

There were dinner plans in the mix somewhere—a quick meal at the hotel’s newest restaurant—then to the theater for their critically acclaimed aquatics show. We had priority seating, which came complete with a server and—free booze.

I don’t recall having that much.

Stumbling, laughing.

Kissing in the lobby against a slot machine. Ashley stuck a quarter in but didn’t end up winning anything. Kissing at the casino bar where we promised ourselves one more drink only.

One more and then we’d go back to the room and to bed.

Well. Go back to the room and have sex.

But then we passed the wedding chapel on the second level en route.

Visions of that chapel flash in my mind: two French doors flanked by large floral arrangements. A side office with a young woman inside who greeted us when we stuck our heads in to ask questions.

Beth.

No, Gretchen.

No, Meredith…

Doesn’t matter. She was perky and upbeat and way too good at her job, and before we knew it, Ashley and I were caught up in the excitement, too.

What two drunk young adults who just spent the day cuddling and kissing and drinking and being pampered wouldn’t be?

I cover my mouth as realization sets in with a tiny gasp.

“Oh my god, Ashley. We didn’t.”

We can’t have.

But the memories begin flooding me like a tidal wave of cliches, plowing me into the sand, and facts cannot be ignored.

I take you, Ashley, to be my husband, yup I sure do…oh my gosh, isn’t he dreamy?

Drinks at dinner, drinks with dessert. Drinks at the show, drinks at the casino. Drinks, drinks, drinks when I hardly ever drink at all.

Never like this.

“We’re not married,” he says firmly, shaking his head. “This can’t be legal. I’m not from America.”

Ha! I don’t think that matters. They issued us a marriage license and took our information and…

“Really? Not married? Then why are we wearing rings? Don’t you remember anything that happened?”

Because I’m starting to.

“I knew it was you the second I laid eyes on you, Georgia Parker.”

“I think I love you, Ashley Dryden whatever all your names are, and I don’t think it’s because I’m drunk.” I looked over at Meredith. “I’m not that drunk.”

“You’re pretty drunk,” she said ruefully.

“I have two middle names too, you know,” Ashley told me, hand on the small of my back—it’s my new favorite place to be touched by him.

“What are they? What are your names?”

“Ashley Arthur Calum Dryden-Jones.”

“That is so fucking sexy.” Hiccup. “I love you.”

“You love me? I love you.”

“You do?”

We began kissing until someone cleared his throat—the clergyman at the front of the small chapel. “I don’t mean to break up the fun, but we do have a line of people waiting and a schedule to keep.”

The rings came from the adjacent jewelry store that carried every kind of gem, stone, band, and color you can imagine. How convenient.

The store wasn’t at all what I would have expected—nothing like the dinky wedding chapel jewelry stores you see on television where the only thing they have available for purchase amounts to a tin-foil wedding band.

Nope.

This was an actual jewelry store.

“Pick anything you want, Lady Dryden-Jones,” Ashley told me with a flourish toward one of the cases.

“Lady?” I giggled. “You sound so proper.”

“I am proper—and I’ll have a title, and that makes you a lady.” He hiccupped. “Pick any ring you want.”

Any ring? La-di-da, weren’t we fancy!

I gazed into the glass. “Why don’t we play a game—you pick out my ring and I’ll pick out yours so it’s romantic.”

He rolled his eyes. “You and your games.”

It didn’t take me long to choose Ashley’s band; I went with a black titanium ring I didn’t know was titanium at the time. I was too drunk to care, and picking rings was fun! I only knew black suited him.

“Do you take me to be your husband?” He walked over and slid a gold band on my finger, a pear-shaped diamond resting on top.

“Ashley! This is huge!”

“No wife of mine is going to wear just a plain band—those are for pussies.”