Prologue
15 Years Ago
“It’s all fun and games until you wake up married! Amirite, girl?”
Ella tried to focus on what her best friend Genevieve was saying. Well…saying was generous. Slurring would probably be more accurate.
Ella might’ve been hungover from the epic night of debauchery the night before, but Gen was still drunk. Ella doubted if she’d even been to bed yet.
The two of them had graduated from high school the week before and then flown out to Las Vegas with a group of their friends to celebrate. Every single one of them had come equipped with the number one travel accessory recommended for the under-twenty-one-in-Vegas set: fake IDs. So the celebrating had gotten wild pretty quick.
Just how wild? Ella wasn’t sure. Most of it was a blur in her painful and foggy brain.
“G, lower the volume. I’m begging you,” Ella mumbled, pressing her fingers to her temples in a mostly-vain attempt to still the throbbing in her head.
“Where’s your ring?” Gen asked, then laughed like it was the funniest joke in the world, complete with drunk-laughter snorts.
“Please,” Ella groaned, humiliated by the note of petulance that crept into her voice. “Gen, I’m begging you. Please just be quiet until we get to the front of this line and get some coffee in us.”
Even though they were in a Starbucks located in the lobby of the Strip hotel where they were staying—the volume around her was never going to reach placid levels—the insistent chatter of her shitfaced best friend was the proverbial straw that broke the hungover camel’s back, and she simply couldn’t take it.
Gen made an exaggerated show of miming the act of zipping her lips shut, locking them, and throwing the key over her shoulder. Despite her pounding head, Ella couldn’t help but smile. That routine, along with the accompanying mantra, “Zip it. Lock it. Throw away the key,” had been their shorthand for both keeping a secret and shutting the hell up since they’d become friends in second grade.
They shuffled forward as the person at the front of the line completed their order, and the muscles in Ella’s neck relaxed just a little. The sweet, sweet relief of caffeine was just that much closer.
She didn’t know if it was the release of tension or the blessed silence that allowed her brain to make the connection, but suddenly she focused on the content of what Gen had been saying rather than the volume.
Wait a minute. Did she say…
“Hold the phone. What are you talking about? Married? Ring?”
Gen shrugged and pointed at her zipped, locked, and keyless lips. Ella shook her head. Pain shot up through her temples but she didn’t even care. The head shake had been worth it.
“G, I’m in no mood.” Her voice was flat and impatient. Which was her standard before-coffee voice, not to mention her standard hangover voice, so it didn’t have the chilling effect on Genevieve that she’d hoped it would.
She tried again. “Come on, G. Please? I really want to know.”
Genevieve grinned, eager to share the details. Ella knew her friend well, and if there was one thing the social butterfly couldn’t resist, it was telling a good story to an eager audience.
“Okay, you got me…but what are you talking about, you want to know? You were, like…there.”
Ella grimaced. “Well, any there I was at last night is foggy at best.”
Genevieve’s eyes widened. “Holy. Shit. So you don’t remember anything?”
“No. What should I be remembering?”
Genevieve just laughed and hummed the wedding march.
The tune struck a sensory memory in Ella’s subconscious and she had a flash. It was wavy and distorted, but she thought she remembered standing up at the front of the aisle in a tacky little wedding chapel, with a little old man standing behind the podium, his voice droning on as he read from a book in front of him.
And next to her was…OH. MY. GOD. Could it be? No. Impossible. It couldn’t be. Could it?
“Here comes the groom, from right across the rooooooom…” Genevieve warbled, her off-key croaking attracting the attention of the other patrons and causing Ella’s head to whip painfully around to follow Genevieve’s finger.
Apparently it could.
Crossing the lobby toward the entrance to the Starbucks was none other than Donovan Valentine, one of the infamous Valentine Brothers. Well, infamous in her small hometown of Valentine Bay, Oregon, at any rate. They were descended from the founders of the town, their parents were pillars of the community, and each one of the four was more of a troublemaker than the last.
Donovan was the oldest, and with his wavy brown hair, sexy stubble, and broad athlete’s shoulders, he’d been the hottest guy in school. He was, as a matter of fact, the object of her lifelong secret crush…and that was a secret she planned to take with her to the grave.
He was also her best friend.
And now her…husband?
What in the actual fuck?
Every bone in Donovan’s body hurt. There was no one source of pain. It was all pain. The worst part, though, was that the room refused to stay in one place.
He hoped the spinning would stop once he got some strong, hot coffee in him. He didn’t have high hopes, but he did have enough to drag himself out of bed, pull on his stale clothes from the night before, smack on sunglasses to cut the knife-like glare of the morning sun, and brave the smoke-filled hotel lobby in search of some.
The minute he’d entered the lobby Starbucks, though, any hope he’d had of getting caffeinated vanished. His best friend Ella appeared at his side and grabbed his arm, dragging him right back out through the glass door before it even had a chance to close behind him.
“Damn, Ell. Take it down a notch. I’m paying the price for last night,” he groaned.
“Believe me, we both might be,” she said, her tone flat and fatalistic.
He paused for a second, trying to make sense of her mysterious words, but the effort was too much for his pounding head. “I give up. What’s the answer?”
“The what?”
“The answer. To your riddle. I’m not exactly up for problem solving.”
Ella glanced furtively around the crowded lobby like they were on some kind of spy mission and then tugged at the hemline of his polo shirt. She led him over to a small couch in a relatively secluded corner. The high back and armrests not only fit in with the modern style of the hotel but also provided a bit of privacy.
Despite the full body ache that engulfed him, he felt a stirring in his jeans. Damn. It always turned him on when Ella touched him. She did it casually a hundred times a day—pulling his shirt, slapping his arm, nudging him with her elbow. She clearly had no idea how much the feeling of her fingers brushing over his skin affected him.
Even in his depleted state, he still felt a nearly overwhelming urge to tangle his fingers in her reddish-brown curls and kiss her, to throw her up against the wall and crush his lips to hers, plunge his tongue into her soft mouth, let his hands roam over her soft and feminine curves…
God. The fantasy filled his mind so suddenly, so fully, and in such vivid detail that it seemed almost more like memory than imagination. But that was impossible.
“Hello? Hello? Earth to Donovan.”
Ella snapped her fingers in front of his face and waved her hands back and forth to get his attention.
Yeah, fuck, he needed to snap out of it. He could never let his guard down and show how he really felt about her. She’d been burned by too many people in her life. He was her best friend, the one person she could count on. She told him that all the time. He cared about her way too much to risk losing her, but especially too much to risk hurting her. He had to keep those feelings locked down tight, so deep in the vault he’d never run the risk of them bleeding out around the door.
“Sorry, Ell. God. Last night is killing me. Slowly and painfully. What do you need?”
“It’s about last night, actually. What do you remember, Donovan?” She covered her face with her hands, and he felt the first flicker of protective worry spark to life in his chest. What the fuck had happened?
He clamped a strong hand over her shoulder, and when he spoke there was barely-controlled rage bubbling just below the surface of every single word. “What’s wrong, Ella? Did somebody hurt you? Who was it? I’ll kill the motherfucker.”
She pulled her hands away from her face and her gaze snapped up to meet his. “What? No, what are you talking about?”
His muscles relaxed reflexively at her confusion at the question. Damn. He’d been ready to go to war to protect her, and he hadn’t even known what the threat was. That was no surprise to him, though. He didn’t know what he’d do without her; she was the best thing in his life.
When it came down to it, he would do anything to make sure she was safe and happy—including hold back his own feelings for her. That was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do, and the most painful sacrifice he’d ever had to make, but if it meant Ella continuing to feel safe and happy with him, then it was a no-brainer.
His mind snapped back to the moment. “Then what are you talking about?”
She threw her hands up in frustration. “Dammit! Trying to have an important conversation when we both have hangover brain is as hard as…as…um…”
Donovan smiled. God, she was adorable when she was annoyed. “As hard as trying to think of an analogy for that conversation?”
She laughed, and his heart squeezed. Her laughter was the other thing that made him want to grab her up in his arms and kiss her all night, coming in second only to her touch. Well, then there was also her smile. And her eyes. And her…okay, well, maybe it was just her. All of her.
Another fantasy filled his mind, so vivid he was transported.
She was facing away from him, her skirt shoved up around her waist and her panties pushed to the side. His jeans and boxer briefs were bunched around his thighs and his fingers were buried in the creamy flesh of her hips as he drove into her again and again, and, oh God, her moans were more intoxicating than the alcohol running through his veins…
She sat up straighter and took a deep breath, snapping him out of his fantasy and back to the conversation. “Okay. Come on, Ella. Get your thoughts together,” she admonished herself before continuing, “So, here’s the thing, Donovan. Gen and I were in line for coffee and she kept referencing something that happened last night. Do you remember anything…unusual?”
Donovan cast his mind back into the gaping hole of memory that was the night before, but all he came back with was an empty hook. He shrugged. “I remember going to the club with everybody. I remember being stoked that our IDs worked. I remember shots. Lots of shots. Then…”
Ella nodded. “Exactly. Then…?”
Donovan closed his eyes, working hard to force his brain to concentrate. Little by little, flashes of memory lit up his mind. A small church. Flowers. A withered old man with a bored monotone saying, “You may now kiss the bride.”
His eyes flew open. “I think we got…”
She finished the sentence with him, their voices mingling as they said, “Married.”
Ella’s head spun, and it wasn’t from the hangover this time.
Married.
It was true. It had happened. She was married to Donovan Valentine.
“What are we going to do?” she whispered.
He cracked a half-smile. “Honeymoon?”
She couldn’t help but chuckle. That was one of her favorite things about Donovan, one of the things that made her love him, even if she could never tell him how she really felt. No matter how dire the circumstances, or how strange, he could always crack a joke that would make her smile. And just like that, she’d feel comforted and protected, and know that everything would be all right because Donovan was there, and he’d always have her back.
“There’s that smile I like to see,” he said, and slid his arm around her shoulder. She couldn’t resist, so she gave into the tempting comfort of his friendly embrace and let herself melt into his shoulder.
The warmth of him against her cheek triggered an image in her mind…well, more than an image, really. More like a full-blown movie. Not to put too fine a point on it, but a porno, if she was being honest.
She was pressed face-first up against a wall, Donovan’s hands roaming all over her bare ass and then up to cup her breasts as he thrust himself into her again and again.
The fantasy was so vivid it caused a painful-but-also-pleasant tightening between her legs, and she gasped, sitting up suddenly, cheeks blazing.
“What’s wrong?” Donovan asked, his deep brown eyes melting with concern. “Are you in pain? Is it the hangover?”
“Um, yeah. The hangover,” she mumbled.
It was not the hangover.
She’d always had a crush-bordering-on-full-blown-love-thing for Donovan, but she’d never indulged in sex daydreams about him. It just felt weird, somehow. Invasive or something.
Or maybe her subconscious was just trying to protect her from falling even further, resulting in inevitable future heartbreak when he didn’t return those feelings. Because, realistically, there was no way he returned those feelings. She was brutally honest with herself about that.
They were from different worlds. He was the football captain, class president, descendent of the founding family, most popular guy in school…hottest guy in school. She was just some artsy outsider, hanging with the theater kids and marking time.
They’d only become best friends as kids because a whim of fate had decreed that they’d live next door to each other, and they’d only stayed best friends as teenagers because…well, apparently Ella’s fairy godmother was working overtime. On paper, that shit made no sense. Ella couldn’t explain it. She was just grateful for it.
“So, back to the main question. What do we do now?” she said, hoping to distract herself before any more X-rated film clips starring her and her best friend could take over the movie screen of her mind.
Donovan thought for a minute, then smiled and shook his head. “Oh my God. I can’t believe I didn’t think about this.”
“What?”
“Ell, we’re in the clear. We’re totally in the clear!”
“How?”
“Dude, what did we bring to Vegas? The most important thing?”
She cast her mind around, looking for clues to follow his train of thought, but between the headache, the sudden floods of lust hormones, and the head-spinning details of their fricking wedding the previous night coming into focus, it was useless. She shrugged. “Yeah, I got nothin’.”
He grabbed her by the shoulders and smiled broadly. “Fake IDs, Ell! We weren’t using our own licenses.”
Her head was spinning too hard to nail down the details. “Dammit, Donovan. I know what you’re trying to get at should be super freaking obvious, but I’m just not up to snuff this morning.”
He laughed, then dug in her messenger bag, which she’d plopped onto the bench seat between them. He pulled out her wallet and opened it, then retrieved his own wallet from his back pocket.
He held them up for her to see, the IDs visible through their plastic windows. “Don’t ya get it, Ella? We didn’t get married. Gerard Blumenthal and Jennifer Lawson did.”
It hit her then. There wouldn’t be any official paperwork filed in their own names that would indicate that the two of them were married. They’d undergone the drunken ceremony while posing as their over-twenty-one alter egos. As far as the government was concerned, last night had never happened.
They weren’t married. He wasn’t her husband. She wasn’t his wife.
“Wow. That’s a big relief,” she said, but for some reason, she’d never been less relieved about anything in her life.
Stop being stupid, Ella, she chided herself harshly. You can’t be upset about losing something you never had!
So why was there a huge lump of grief sitting like a rock in her stomach, more painful than anything she’d ever felt since she’d sat on the front porch when she was eight years old and watched her father drive away for the last time?
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s like last night was…just a dream. Not real. It never happened.”
Was that a note of wistfulness in his voice, or was she just imagining hearing one because she wanted it to be there so badly?
“Woo! There’s the happy couple!” Genevieve stumbled up to them, coffee cups in hand.
“Well, it’s not entirely erased from human history, I guess,” Ella joked, standing and taking her coffee.
Genevieve handed a steaming cup to Donovan. “I got one for the groom, too. I thought you might be too exhausted to stand in line after, you know, the wedding night.”
Ella cringed at Gen’s trilling laughter. It was going to be a good long time before she’d be able to laugh about this. Donovan seemed to be taking it good-naturedly, though. “Real funny, Genevieve. But we didn’t actually tie the knot last night.”
“You did! I was there!”
He shook his head. “Fake IDs.”
“Oh,” Gen pouted. “That sucks. I wanted you to be married. You guys would make the best couple.”
“Gen, stop. You’re drunk.” Ella laughed to cover her nervousness at how close to home the topic was hitting, emotionally.
Gen shrugged. “True. Anyway, losers, we’re meeting for breakfast in twenty, then packing up and heading to the airport. See you at the buffet.”
After Genevieve had gone, Ella turned to Donovan and opened her mouth to say something, but found that, for the first time in their entire friendship, she didn’t know what to say. The one thing they’d never been with each other was awkward, but that’s exactly how she felt.
True to his track record of always stepping up to the plate and taking care of her, though, Donovan broke the tension. With a broad smile, he put his hand out for her to take. “Shall we, Mrs. Blumenthal?”
She laughed and tucked her hand into his. “Absolutely, Mr. Blumenthal.”
As they crossed the lobby, Ella glanced surreptitiously at his chiseled profile. It sparked butterflies, but they were the same ones she always felt. She could handle that. Of course she could. She always had.
The important thing was that he was still in her life. That he was still her best friend.
Her Donovan.