The unnerving sensation of not knowing where I am hits before I've even opened my eyes.

Plus, the hellacious pounding in my head tells me I'm not ready for this yet. Not ready to look. It’ll hurt, guaranteed.

I groan, pushing my cheek into the pillow, piercing pain rippling up my jaw like lightning. Then I pry my eyes open one at a time, instantly regretting it.

Should've listened. Shouldn't invite this stabby, invisible dagger into my brain, but the unease growling in my belly gets the best of me.

I have to know where the hell I am.

White walls. Stark white. Painful, priestly white.

Nothing’s familiar.

I close my eyes. Bask in sweet relief.

Then I try to think. Try to remember.

Try to fight through this angry nothingness fogging up my mind.

My heart starts racing and I try to dispel it. The strange desire to freak out.

I take a deep breath and hold it.

What do I know? What do I remember?

I’m in Reno. And I went out last night to a casino. Hit it big on a slot machine. Dancing cartoon cats on the screen everywhere, throwing dollar bills, the entire machine going siren red and green with flashing lights.

A woman with bright purple lipstick and oversized shades insisted on a victory round of margaritas for us both. So, I indulged her, just like anybody in great spirits and instantly flush with cash.

But I wasn't done yet. Oh, mama, no.

Then I'd played blackjack. My almost-friend with the purple lips steered me toward the tables before she'd disappeared.

That's where I'd found that handsome sip of sin. Hercules.

The utterly ripped, silver-tongued beast who gives me a shaky smile even now. The man who kept winking at me with his vivid blue eyes every time I won another hand.

God, he was good-looking. An immortal come to earth with orders from Daddy Zeus to drop panties left and right.

Don't get me wrong. I don't normally drool over men like this. Or march around having drinks with complete strangers.

I definitely don't get all hot and bothered and carried away by the excitement of the spinning reels and neon lights.

Mindy freaking Austin, yours truly, is the good girl who doesn't do shocking, scary things.

She doesn't call off her marriage to King Douchebag, run off to Reno, and win crazy money, and then tumble into the lap of a Greek God.

But I had climbed into his lap, hadn't I? I'd traced his strong, beautifully weathered face with my fingertips, starting above the ear and circling down to the tender short beard that rubbed so dangerously sweet against my skin.

He'd bought me a few rounds at the bar. I'd returned the favor, buying him a drink or two, and then...

A total blank.

Damn.

Why can’t I remember? I’ve been drunk before, but...I didn’t even have that many drinks last night. Did I?

Agony ripples through my head again, this sluggish freight train of God, no.

It tells me different. The hangover from hell can't lie.

My head’s damn-near ready to explode.

I take a deep breath and force my eyelids open again, hoping some soft-blue or teal will materialize before my eyes.

Nope. Just stark white. Everywhere.

Even the curtains are bony white, and the brightness makes my head throb harder.

This isn’t the place I’m staying at in town. Those walls are tacky early nineties wallpaper with huge pink roses. The bed’s all wrong too. It's bigger than the saggy double bed I'm used to with an eat-you-alive mattress, and there's never this huge, hulking lump within reach.

Wait. Lump?

An eerie sensation I'm not alone sends a tremor down my spine as I slowly find the courage to twist my neck.

Holy shit. I’m in a bed, all right. With a man.

And it’s not Charlie.

My head snaps back so fast the air locks in my lungs at the sight of him.

Hercules shifts slightly in his sleep, his face tilting like a groggy lion's, his lips slightly pursed. If I didn't have to struggle to remember my own name, it'd be kinda adorable.

But right now?

Crap! My heart drums faster, hazy memories flooding back with every beat.

That’s him. The man from the blackjack table. The beast who practically seduced me into a lap dance fit for an Arabian Nights fantasy.

The one with eyes as midnight blue as the dusky skies. Almost as magnificent as the dark, bleeding ink of his tattoos. Those brilliant fever eyes of his are closed, and I hope they stay that way. I don't need them interrogating me to realize the full insane gravity of what's gone down here.

His tattoos do plenty. I recognize the American flag tat on his arm instantly, and the fierce eagle on his chest.

I take a second peek. There's no mistaking him.

Mr. To-Die-For. Reno Hercules. Mindy Austin, undone.

The man with a thousand names because of course I couldn't guess his real one to save my life.

Somebody shoot me.

But first, let me sneak another peek and be just a teensy bit disappointed that the sheet covers most of him below the waist.

On the plus side, the same sheet covers me, too.

My cotton ball headache amplifies with self-conscious fire when I realize just how close I am to naked next to this delectable beast-man.

How did I end up here, really? Undressed? With him?

I struggle to call back more details, but my margarita-doused brain has its limits.

My heart leaps into my throat as every horror story my mother ever told me repeats in my head. Everything from kidnappers with candy snatching kids off playgrounds to serial killers luring women into their vans in parking lots.

Whatever else I did last night...whatever rules of Mindy I crumpled up and tossed away...did I really, truly go gallivanting off to a one night stand? Something I've never done in my life?

I break out in a cold sweat, even while I'm telling myself none of those things happened last night.

Slowly, I stretch, deliberately flexing my muscles.

It's just my head that hurts. If I'd had my fun with this softly snoozing goliath, surely he'd have left me sore in all the best ways?

I wrinkle my nose, wondering why nothing adds up.

Slowly, I ease off the bed, half-rolling and half-falling to the floor. I’m not sure if I'm relieved by the fact that I'm still wearing my bra and underwear.

There's no time to convince myself either way because I spy my dress across the room.

It’s blue. The same one I bought before leaving Scottsdale. It was cut higher and lower than anything in my old wardrobe. My cheeks burst into flames the first time I tried it on and looked into the dressing room mirror. I knew I'd found the perfect outfit for Reno Mindy.

Post-Charlie Mindy.

New Mindy.

I’d planned on celebrating that. Sweet freedom.

Finally realizing the huge mistake I’d made by being strung along for years.

Not daring to glance behind me, I pray my weight disappearing from the bed hasn’t woken Hercules, and then crawl to my dress. My purse is there, too. On the floor next to one shoe.

I glance around left and right, but don’t see another white sandal. Refusing to look back at the bed, I grab my purse with one hand, the dress with the other, and keep crawling to the door.

Better one sandal than none.

The carpet is white, of course, and plush, something I'm thankful for as I shimmy on my hands and knees. It helps smother my clumsy noises.

Keep breathing, I tell myself, urging my way across this room that seems bigger than some houses.

I finally make it to the door, reach up, twist the knob, and ease it open wide enough to push my body through. Of course, I lose the other sandal off my foot, wincing as it goes spinning off behind me.

Once it's shut, I pull the dress over my head, twist it until I find the arm holes, and then yank it down to my waist.

Ugh, effort. It's practically a small marathon in my hangover state. I’m damn-near gasping for breath.

Technically, I've never run a marathon. I've also never had to slink out of a stranger’s bedroom like a freaking cat burglar before either.

Sighing at how surreal this is, I leap to my bare feet. Only to flop against the wall as everything goes spinning.

Holy hell. How many drinks did I have?

It takes a few seconds to set my knees right again. I have to smother a moan, the pain squeezing my head so hard my eyes water.

This is too much. Too weird. Too creepy!

I'm so gone, if only I could make my legs work like a normal human being.

I dash – well, wobble, because I still don’t have my bearings – down the hallway and into a spacious living room.

Spotless white walls again. A magnificent backdrop against the dark leather furniture and a massive gray fireplace with a few sparse photos on the mantle.

Everything looks new and unused. Which only adds to the weirdness.

The ax-murderer stories Mother drilled into my head since the time I was old enough to go outside alone keep coming fast and hard and I’m ready to totally freak out.

As fast as possible, I run to the outside door and hope like hell there isn’t some sort of alarm system as I twist the deadbolt lock and then the knob.

Elation floods my brain the instant I shoot out the door and close it behind me, until I realize I’m in another hallway. An unfamiliar one.

There are numbers on the doors.

A hotel? Condo? Apartment building?

Heck if I know.

Why can’t I remember a single solitary thing? Like how I got here? How I ended up sleeping in the same bed as Hercules, who may or may not be a complete devil under his guardian angel exterior?

At least my equilibrium has somewhat returned and my knees aren't shaking. I head down the hall, more stride in my step.

Hot air hisses out my lungs the second I see the elevator. Almost in reach. Thank God.

I hit the button at least ten times, hoping that'll magically hoist it up here faster.

A bell finally dings and the doors slide open. I leap inside and lean against the cold metal rail while the doors slide shut.

I have no clue what floor I’m on, but that doesn’t matter. I hit the button. The down arrow lights up above the door and the words PENTHOUSE LOBBY flash. I glance at the floor panel again. Thirty-three floors.

Huffing out a breath, I lean harder against the rail and the wall. Surely, a mass-murderer wouldn’t live in a penthouse. Right?

Who knows. I should just be glad I got away.

I zip open my purse and the wad of cash nearly takes my breath away. It's a whole lot more than I'd get from an easy slot win.

I bite my tongue, trying to hold in my eyes before they jump out of my head. Smiling because, hey, one thing's gone very right.

A foggy memory of cashing in chips flashes through my mind. More chips than I could carry popping out between my fingers. Hercules himself helped me gather them off the blackjack table and cash them in.

We were both laughing. Arm in arm. Making off like bandits and ready to celebrate.

The ding of a bell has me shaking my head to get rid of the memory and focus on the present.

Fifteenth floor. I frown.

As the door opens, my heart clenches. But I let out a sigh of relief as an older woman pushing a stroller steps in. She casts me a somewhat bewildered glance and then looks away quickly.

Then I see my reflection and know the only thing scary in this place is me.

Sweet Jesus. My hand goes to the tangled mess of my hair. If bedhead and sex hair had a love child, it'd look just like the chestnut nest on my head.

Sighing, I riffle through my purse and find my brush, and then my phone. I use the brush first, wincing at how hard I have to pull to bring a little order to my crazy hair, before I drop it back in, pushing the wad of money down farther.

The elevator finally stops and I follow the woman out, clutching my phone, grateful to see the large glass door and the world beyond. I follow the stranger and her baby outside and suck in a breath of air so hard I nearly choke.

I have no idea what I expected, but I know it wasn’t this.

It’s like an oasis out here. Green grass and trees. Even a water fountain in the center of the circular stone driveway. The sound of falling water reminds me just how dry my mouth is.

The woman pushing the stroller goes left, and not wanting another one of the scathing looks she keeps flashing, I go right. Quickly.

The concrete isn’t hot, which means it must be early morning. I want to pull out my phone but need to get further away first.

I'm not free and clear yet. Hercules could wake up any second and come charging down here like a whirlwind.

I glance over my shoulder nervously. Can't see anyone at the door, but baby-pusher disappears around the corner. It’s almost like I’m back at the casino, hitting jackpot after jackpot. Each little step a win in my great escape.

If only it made sense.

Why do I remember the blackjack table, but nothing after?

There's no time to worry about that now. I make a mad dash across the pavement and into the grove of well manicured brush. Finding a spot where I can watch the front door for Hercules and make a run for it if necessary, I swipe my phone.

It's 7:15 a.m.

Hopefully, he’s a late sleeper.

I open the Uber app I’d used last night to take me to the casino. Tap a few more times and hold my breath, waiting for a response.

I know. I'm counting on another stranger, but what choice do I have? Taxis take far too long. No family in Reno either. I could run, but I doubt I'd get two blocks before I fall down barefoot in my woozy state. I'd rather deal with a try-hard Uber driver's cheesy small talk than waste another nano-second here.

The app confirms a car, finally, five minutes or so out.

Five minutes.

It might as well be an hour. It already feels that long.

The water fountain is now between me and the building.

Lord, I’d give up half the cash in my purse for a drink. And for a couple Ibuprofens. A whole freaking bottle, actually.

I also wonder how much money is stuffed in my purse. Definitely a flip-wad of cash, easily a few thousand.

A small branch snaps off the ground, freed when I shift my foot, slapping me across my cheek.

I push it aside and keep staring through the small opening between the thick branches. Telling myself that I can’t chance digging the money out. This isn't the time to count my loot.

Gotta keep my eyes on the door. Watching for Hercules. Ready to run.

When a car appears, I curse it for blocking my view. Then I realize it’s red, just like the one the app said would pick me up.

I shove my way through the brush and stumble onto the pavement, realizing my mistake as the driver slams on the brakes moments before plowing into me. I’m too nervous to be startled or embarrassed.

Running to the back door, I jump in. “Let’s go. You've got the address, right?”

The driver, a woman with a long ponytail, glances at me. “Are you all right?”

“Never better,” I say. “Just ready to get home. Big party last night. Kinda wild.”

The woman smiles, relief flooding her face. “Been there, done that,” she says, steering the car around the circle drive.

As soon as we roll past the big glass door, I lean my head back and close my eyes. The relief that washes over me is like a cold shower on a hot day.

Maybe coming to Reno wasn't my smartest move. My third day here, waking up in a stranger’s bed.

God.

Mother would absolutely die if she ever found out. Thankfully, I’m alone, so she’ll never know.

No one will. This secret's going to the grave.

Last night flashes at me again during the ride, machine gun memories echoing through my sore brain.

Laughing and dancing. Not on a dance floor, more like a foyer with tile.

Hercules, my gorgeous partner, whirling me around and only slowing so I could gaze into those fire-blue eyes that take me to another world.

We're dancing long and hard. He’s spinning me. Around and around and around.

My eyes snap open, but my lips are tingling. They remember too well what happened next.

He’d kissed me. Or I’d kissed him. More than once.

And he'd tasted as good as he looked. The kind of fierce, take-you-over kiss that just starts at the tip of your tongue and slides down your whole body.

The kind that lingers.

The kind that leaves an impression on every last nerve.

I remember a better kind of hurt last night when I think of Herc's lips. The sizzle caressing the tips of my nipples and the wetness between my legs. A huge, sweet universe away from the aftermath I'm living now, blitzed out with my face tucked into my palm in the back of an Uber.

My head throbs again as I press both hands against my temples. Then slouch forward to hang my head over my knees. The car's jerky movement on the highway makes my stomach churn.

The only way this gets worse is if I throw up.

No freaking way. I bite my tongue and pray for the ride to end soon.

This has to be the worst fucking hangover ever.

It seems like a year passes before the car stops.

“We’re here!” my driver announces cheerfully.

I snap my head up and cringe at the pain. “Thanks,” I manage, almost rolling out the door.

The building is familiar, comforting. I dig in my purse, past the money and finally feel my keychain.

Thank God I’d clipped the key fob for the main door and the key to the apartment to my car keys.

The elevator to the fourth floor feels much longer than the one down from the penthouse. It’s rougher and smellier, too. This building isn’t nearly as well-kept as the mystery penthouse, but this is the place where I should've spent last night.

It isn't home. More like home base, but it'll do.

This trip is supposed to be my freedom revolution. My chance to break free. To celebrate my getting out before the going got messy.

The chance to see all the things I’ve given up over the years living in Charlie’s shadow.

Just waiting for him to obtain the things he wanted, the things he needed, while I sat in the background dreaming about my wants. My needs, always trampled and forgotten.

That’s what last night was supposed to be. A wild adventure. A chance to let loose. To not be tied down by anyone or anything.

Mindy Austin 2.0. Better, sexier, and a hundred times smarter.

For all I know, maybe it was all those things, and then some.

I can't remember everything. I can only hope.

Exiting the elevator, I unlock the door to apartment four-twelve, with its flowered wallpaper and old lady furniture, complete with doilies hanging over the backs of every chair and the potpourri scent of things old and forgotten.

After locking the deadbolt, I throw my purse on the flowered sofa and head for the bathroom to chug half a gallon of water in one go.

Thirst quenched, I turn on the shower and then strip.

As I step out of my underwear, a sense of regret washes over me.

Maybe last night wasn't as crazy as I thought.

If I’d really let loose, I’d have had sex with Hercules. Willingly. Joyfully.

But that hadn’t happened. My body shows no signs of a beast-man ravaging every inch of me.

A man like him would have left memories. He'd have left me sore inside and out, and no matter how much I drank, there's no freaking way I'd forget ever riding him to the moon and back.

I also wouldn’t have gotten up and put my underwear and bra back on after having sex. That isn't me. Not even me under the influence.

I should be relieved, knowing I walked away from a complete stranger in one piece, but somehow, it seems like a lost opportunity.

Hercules could've rocked my world. Nothing like Charlie, who could only get it up for Friday nights, if he wasn't 'too tired and stressed from work.'

Who the hell does that?

“You did,” I say aloud, stepping into the shower. “For the past four years.”

I stick my head under the steaming water, ready to wash away those memories and clear my mind.

It’s flipping crazy. I can remember everything about Charlie. His big-shot corporate attitude and his pompous rules. The specific order he had in the bedroom, how everything had to happen just-so. More like a chore than anything resembling passion.

It's insane. Nothing but bad memories for a man who nearly dragged me to the altar. And nothing but good, scary memories of the beast I woke up next to this morning.

I wish I remembered more. Wish I had one more glimpse of those Atlantic blue eyes that sparkled so bright I could almost see my own reflection.

The irrational part comes last. I'd been too caught up in Hercules' savage good looks to ask myself why I was with him in the first place.

Why had I spent all night sleeping half-dressed next to a man who hadn't done anything to me? Had we just passed out before anything could happen?

Wiping the water off my face, something lightly scratches my cheek.

I freeze. My eyes feel like they're ready to leave their sockets.

My engagement ring. I forgot to take it off before getting in the shower. I smile, knowing Charlie would be so pissed. He never shut up about the warranty and insurance.

Then it hits me and my smile fades.

My spine goes rigid for a second time, locking me in place, and for a few more seconds I'm trembling, too scared to open my eyes.

Here's the problem: I no longer have an engagement ring.

However screwed up my memories of last night are, I distinctly remember leaving Scottsdale last week. The evening I ripped the gaudy ring that always felt more like a prison-rock off my finger for the last time and laid it on the table.

It was the same evening I broke up with Charlie, after I'd come home from the airport.

Still not opening my eyes, I grasp the finger on my left hand with my right index finger, thumbing the strange new ring that shouldn't be there.

But I'm not imagining it. That’s for damn sure.

It's simple beauty. Gold band. A few delicate gems lined up in the center.

Am I dreaming?

Am I still engaged to Charlie Pratt and fantasizing about what'll happen when I finally get the courage to break it off?

No. No daydream would leave me feeling this crappy, this confused.

I’m not in my bathroom back in Scottsdale. I’m in Reno. Showering in Martha Walsh’s apartment while she’s in Washington helping her granddaughter, who just had a baby.

You're hallucinating, I tell myself.

It's probably the dehydration or the waning headache or the adrenaline hangover I've had since getting home. I lick my lips, count to three, and open my eyes.

What the what?! It’s not just one ring. It’s two!

An engagement ring with a very large emerald surrounded by several small diamonds. Nothing at all like the glittery designer name I’ve worn for the past year. The etched wedding band has emeralds and diamonds on it, too.

They're both gorgeous. Flipping gorgeous.

Another image flashes in my head, so ridiculous it sends me jumping out of the shower.

I think...oh, God...it's Elvis, isn't it?

Yup. Elvis. Alive and well.

The King himself. Dressed as a preacher.

Or maybe a preacher dressed as Elvis?

Naked and wet, I run to the living room, grabbing my purse. Zipping it open, I dump the contents on the sofa and start pawing through the pile.

My cell phone, hair brush, and trinkets fall onto the cushion, along with a shower of cash, and then, a single folded sheet of paper flutters out. It'd been jammed into the very bottom.

Somehow, just looking at it, I know. And I'm already hyperventilating a little before it's readable.

My hands shake as I pick it up. Open it. Look.

State of Nevada Certificate of Marriage, it reads.

Mindy Marie Austin to Noah Allen Bernard.

“It can't be!” I whisper, on the verge of passing out. “I’m...I'm married?”