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The urge to giggle had everything to do with nerves and nothing to do with how he looked. No, nothing about his physique was giggle-worthy. If Neve could have crafted the perfect male specimen, he would have looked exactly like Reece. A sculpted torso that started at wide shoulders and tapered to a trim waist, like a V, above a perfectly square butt. Smooth, tan skin.

His back was to her, so she couldn’t assess the man package, but judging by the way it had felt against her in bed, he wasn’t lacking in that department either.

He came to a stop and glanced over his shoulder. “You’re staring.”

She swallowed a yelp.

A slow grin spread over his face—at least the side she could see in profile. “You know what they say. You see mine, I see yours.”

“That’s so childish!” she spluttered. “Besides, you’ve already seen it, and so have I.”

“We were five years old, Neve. I think things have changed since then.”

Details.

She brushed at something tickling her shoulder and looked up. “They have robes in here. His and hers, judging by the sizes.”

“Good because I can’t find a single stitch. Throw one out, would you?”

Hoisting herself to her feet, she slid the smaller robe from its hanger and quickly pulled it on before handing him the other one through the closet door.

“Thanks.” Fabric rustled. “As much fun as it is talking to you through a closet door, I think it’d be much easier if you came out.”

“Are you decent?”

“Always.”

She opened the door and stepped out—and tried not to laugh, especially given the seriousness of their dilemma. The robe hit him at the knees, and the sleeves were halfway up his forearms.

“We need to figure this out,” they both said at the same time.

“Maybe there are some clues in here.” Reece loped toward their adjoining doors, which stood wide open, but before she could follow, he let out a strangled sort of noise from his bedroom.

“What is it?” She hurried through the doorway.

“Found our clothes.”

His bed looked as though a herd of elephants had tap-danced on it. Scattered around said bed were various bits of his and her wedding outfits. Her panties lay in a crumpled heap beside his boxers, and her matching strapless bra hung over a chair that sat cockeyed to the desk. On the nightstand stood two empty champagne bottles, along with a half-dozen martini glasses, also empty.

She gasped and tried not to hurl.

He held up his hands. “Don’t panic.” Traipsing over to the desk, he switched on the lamp and picked up a piece of paper. A groan punched from his lungs.

“What? What is it?”

He locked gazes with her. “You can panic now.”

A mere beat passed, and she was by his side, gawking at what he held in his hands. Her already-unsettled stomach plummeted to her toes. “That’s … that’s …”

“A marriage license. Yeah.”

“It’s got to be a joke. Are those our real names?”

“Looks like.”

He plucked up what looked like a receipt and whipped his head toward her. His eyes dipped to her hand. “Holy Mother of …”

She followed his gaze, and her mouth swung open.

He pointed at her hand. “That is not fake.”

On her left ring finger was a big-ass diamond and a matching band.

Now she darted her eyes to his left hand. “Uh, you seem to be wearing what looks like the man version of mine. These must be fake! Right?”

“Don’t think so.” He held up the receipt.

She covered her mouth to hold back a choked cry. “Is that a six? With four zeros after it?”

“No, that’s an eight.” He rubbed his forehead with his free hand. “Damn! I bought these!”

She inspected the ring, which was almost too big for her small finger. “It is beautiful.”

“I have great taste. Did you have a say in it, or did I just … buy it?”

She blinked. “You’re asking me?”

“You were there, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, I was there, but I was as drunk as you, and everything’s a black hole.”

Dear God, what had they done?

 **Don’t miss the rest of the series! **

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Since childhood, all sorts of stories and characters have lived in G.K. Brady’s imagination, elbowing one another for attention, so she’s finally giving them their voice on the written page.

 

An award-winning writer of contemporary romance, she loves telling tales of the less-than-perfect hero or heroine who transforms with each turn of a page. She also writes historical fiction under the pen name Griffin Brady.

 

G.K. is a wife and the proud mom of three grown sons. When she’s not writing, she might be reading, traveling, drinking wine, listening to music, or gardening—sometimes all at once! She currently resides in Colorado with her very patient husband.

  

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