I have never been so conflicted about an answer before in my life. At least, not since Bobby Carmichael sent me a note in sixth grade asking to be my boyfriend, and I had to decide if him having a Sega Genesis made up for the fact that I thought he smelled like applesauce.

All right. Maybe preparing to discover whether I’m married to a guy I’ve known less than twenty-four hours isn’t exactly the same as “Segagate.” But it’s close.

The cab pulls up right outside of a kitschy little chapel at the very edge of the Strip. It’s a cute little place, one story, painted white with pink, heart-shaped shutters by the windows. A plastic garden with Astroturf waits inside a little white picket fence. There’s a glowing neon sign at the front, complete with Elvis himself, in glorious glittery lights, gyrating above a sign advertising to Viva Las Vegas in matrimonial bliss.

“Does your mouth taste like dust?” I ask Nate. He looks a little sweaty, like he’s not sure he wants to get out of the car.

“A little, maybe. I thought that was because of the desert,” he says, getting out and handing me out after him. Who says chivalry is dead? My possible-maybe-husband is a true gentleman.

We walk into the chapel, and I have to ask myself: would it be so bad being married to this guy?

Okay, leaving aside the fact that we don’t know each other and Mom will flip the hell out, we’ve got the sexual chemistry thing under control. Like, it’s very under control. It’s in a safety deposit box at the bank under control. I have the key to it in my bra, tucked right up against my left breast.

Okay. Stop stalling, Julia. In we go.

We walk into a blast of air conditioning so frigid it freezes the sweat on my body, creating a really uncomfortable sensation. Around us, enough bouquets of pink and white roses have been arranged to supply three Italian funerals. Organ music blasts over speakers. It takes me a minute to realize that the music is a bunch of Elvis hits refigured for pipe organ. How nice. There’s Hunka Hunka Burning Love; never thought I’d hear it as composed by Bach.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Nate asks, looking around with a tight expression on his face.

I’m sure we’re where we need to be, studly perhaps-husband. I hold up the card; the name is right there, in perfect gold foil.

“All right, let’s get some answers,” I say, and push open a pair of white painted doors . . . right into the wedding chapel, where two guys are in the process of getting married. They’re in matching powder blue tuxedos, and one of them is weeping. With joy, I hope.

“Ah now pronounce you—” Elvis stops in the middle of his pelvis-thrusting wedding officiation to look up at us.

He’s 1970s Elvis to the max, with a sparkly white rhinestone suit and a wig of perfectly coiffed, jet black hair. He takes off his gold-rimmed sunglasses.

“Can I help you?” he asks, dropping his voice to its normal register and looking like he’s been on the clock for way too damn long. He pulls a hip flask out of his suit and takes a quick swig.

Everybody’s working for the weekend.

“We’re, ah, looking for our license,” I say.

Elvis slides his glasses back down his nose. “Then you want Connie over at reception. Obviously,” the guy finishes, muttering under his breath.

Elvis is a bitch.

“We’re getting married!” the sniffly guy yells. He looks so proud. Aw, sweetie.

“Yay!” I cry out, giving them an enthusiastic thumbs up. They beam at me.

“Mazel Tov,” Nate mutters, and we shut the doors, turning away from the chapel and back to the front desk. “You handle weird situations a lot better than me,” he says.

I do believe he may be impressed.

“That’ll be a good quality to have when we move into your condo,” I say. Then I hold up my hands when he blanches a little bit. “Kidding. We really should pick our honeymoon destination, though. I’m thinking Cabo or Venice. One is more beach, but the other is more pasta. Can’t decide.”

Nate laughs at that, and rings the desk bell. He waits, then does it again thirty seconds later. Again, a man who knows how to get what he wants.

I lean on the counter next to him, our arms against each other. A whisper of electricity brushes up my skin; I’m getting goosebumps just from his presence. Or maybe that’s the air conditioning.

“Can I help you?” a woman asks, coming up to the counter from the back room. She’s snapping gum, and has her hair poofed up in June Carter-style fabulousness. “Would you like our premium or deluxe package? Deluxe means you get to keep the rings. Here.” She reaches under the counter and pulls out a black velvet tray with rhinestone sparklers in it. “Personally, I like the one with the swan-shaped diamond. It screams eternal bliss.” She blows a bubble; the bags under her eyes tell me she might be pulling a double shift.

“We need to check our license. We might have gotten married here last night,” Nate says, all business. The woman snorts.

“Might have? How blitzed were you, sweetie?”

Nate grumbles and takes my phone, showing her the picture.

She nods. “Yep. You had Daryl, our midnight Elvis. Good job, too. He’s way more fun than Kyle. You know, the one officiating right now?” She sighs and picks at a scab on her finger. “Kyle drops character all the time. Daryl even takes his lunch break like Elvis. Peanut butter banana sandwiches and everything.”

“That’s . . . committed,” Nate says at last.

“Yep. It’ll kill him someday. Just like how Elvis died, trying to take a shit.” She shakes her head. “It’s what Daryl wants. Anyway, let me get the license.” She turns around and goes in the back.

I start nervously rapping my fingers on the counter. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? My leg starts jittering, and Nate lays his hand on top of mine.

“Whatever happens . . . we’ll be okay,” he says, squeezing my fingers.

I’m sure he means it in the “we’ll be able to get a quickie divorce” sense, but maybe not. Maybe we could try it out for a while, see if the shoe fits. After all, I’m still reveling in memories of our lovemaking last night, and my toes curl even thinking about it.

I smile up at him, wanting to run my fingers across the fine stubbled line of his jaw.

He looks down at me, too. “Julia,” he says. “I want—”

“Found it,” Connie says, shoving back in through the door and slapping a piece of paper on the counter. “Congratulations. You are married in the great state of Nevada. Hope you have a long and happy life together.”

She’s still chomping on that gum, looking from Nate to me like she’s anticipating three months before the divorce, tops.

I think my entire body’s gone numb. I’m . . . married. Again.

“Wow,” Nate says. It sounds like the wind’s been taken out of him. He clears his throat, puts his hand on the wedding license.

My heart is pounding a mile a minute. Okay. So we’re married. This can be dealt with if we need to, you know, get a divorce. I don’t think Nate would try to pull anything with my money like Drew did, and I think he knows me well enough to know I wouldn’t do anything like that to him.

But what if . . . what if he wants to give our marriage a shot?

Because I’ve been thinking about it on the taxi ride over here, thinking about the knot in my stomach. Now I realize I wasn’t worried because I was afraid we were married; I was a little nervous to think that we weren’t.

Not to say that this is the way I really wanted or pictured anything, but we do well together, Nate and I. Don’t we?

Look, maybe we can agree to play it by ear for a month or two. If in eight weeks we know it’s a bust, we just go to the courthouse and file and boom, we’re done. Not married.

But if eight weeks go by, and we like it, maybe we try eight more weeks. And then eight weeks after that. And then . . . .

I don’t know why I’m suddenly feeling giddy with happiness. It’s crazy to feel this way, but I kind of want to smile and kiss the crazy jerk. David Tennant is right along with me, hanging out in the back of my head, giving me a thumbs up.

“Allons-y, darling! It’s perfect,” he calls, twirling his sonic screwdriver. I don’t mean that in the dirty way at all. Mostly.

I tilt my head up to Nate, my lips parting. “Maybe . . . ” I say.

“Hold on. Look at this.” His eyes light up, and he passes the paper to me. I study the wedding license, not quite sure what the hell he’s talking about.

State of Nevada, Elvis, it all seems perfectly legal. And then my eyes fall onto the name written beside Bride. It looked so natural at first, I didn’t even question it. But of course.

It’s not my name. It’s Lola Sinclair’s name. And right underneath, beside Groom . . . .

“Peyton Manning?” I say, looking up at Nate in bewilderment. He nods.

“The man is a fucking god. You can’t blame me for wanting to be him for one drunken night, even in a Las Vegas wedding chapel.” He says it all with an air of reverence.

“Our chapel is one of the finest in the city,” Connie says, a lit cigarette now clamped between her teeth. She blows a smoke ring, then gets a can of Febreze from under the counter and disinfects the air.

Nate and I take a step away.

“What does this mean?” I ask him, heart hammering. He grins.

“It means this isn’t legally binding. Lola Sinclair doesn’t exist, and I’m obviously not Manning. We don’t have to worry.” He folds the license up, creating a perfect, crisp fold in the center. Exactly symmetrical. “We’re free.”

And that’s exactly how he sees it. He breathes such a sigh of relief, it’s almost hard not to take it as an insult. Strike that: it’s pretty impossible not to take it as an insult.

“Well, glad you don’t have to burden yourself with the divorce process,” I say, stepping backward.

He lets me go; he’s still too caught up in the bliss of not being married to a stranger. And hell, can I really give him shit about that? I don’t think so.

“Come on. We both would’ve been adults about it,” he says, finally looking at me with an expression that suggests being eternally bound to someone after a night of hot sex isn’t the best way to go about things.

Christ, I really was thinking this through like one of my books, wasn’t I? Two strangers wind up in bed together after a night of pounding back shots and discussing heartbreak. They accidentally marry, have a huge breakup near the end, and then realize they’re madly in love when one of them is just boarding a plane for Austria. Then the groom races along the runway, the airport police tailing him in their car, as he tries to get to the plane window as it’s taxiing and about to take off.

In my novel’s version, the hero also doesn’t have a shirt on, but that’s more for aesthetic purposes.

Point is, I’ve been acting like this’ll end in some magical, embracing moment between the two of us, as we resolve to live like a couple of crazy people and not worry about things like jobs, living in different states, friends, compatibility, you know. All that boring adult stuff.

Maybe I have been too caught up in my work. Maybe it’d be good for me to take a step back and remember that in real life, you don’t find your soul mate in a strip club, waking up with nothing more than a tattoo and some blurry memories.

“You’re right. We would’ve been adults.” I hold out my hand. “So, partner. Crazy Vegas adventure. At least we get to check that off the bucket list, right?”

Nate blinks; he looks like he doesn’t quite get it. But he nods slowly, shaking with me.

“Yeah. I, uh, would invite you back to the room if you want. But I’ve got the wedding in a few hours. Besides, you’re probably just relieved how this all turned out.”

He doesn’t even make it a question. My gut tightens at his words, but I don’t betray my fabulous calm. So fabulous. Much calm. Wow.

“I’ve got to get going anyway. The conference is still in swing. I haven’t done as much mingling as I should have,” I say. We walk out the doors, back into the oppressive Vegas heat.

Oh man. Sweat starts trickling down my back again, instantly.

“I know you love to mingle. Mingling’s your bread and butter,” he says, maybe a little louder than he has to. I can tell the relief is just radiating off of him.

“Bread and butter’s okay, I guess. I prefer champagne and Hostess cupcakes. You know. Both classy and common,” I say, smacking him on the shoulder. I actually smack him.

He just nods, dialing up a cab. While he’s doing that, another taxi happens to come along, and I hail it.

“Want a ride back?” I ask, hoping that he’ll get inside, and we’ll have a quiet conversation, and—

“Thanks. I think I have to get in touch with the guys. They’re probably out looking for me,” he replies.

Right. He does not want to have much more to do with me now that our insane sex-having, bird-napping adventure is over. I get into the car and smile.

“See you around,” I say. He nods.

“See you, Julia.” He looks back at his phone, distracted, shut off. He’s finished with one problem; now on to the next.

And just like that, I drive away.