“I wonder which one I’ll pick,” I say, grinning as I walk down the row of shiny new Ferraris.

Tyler grins beside me. “How about that one?” he says, pointing to a cardboard cutout of a Ferrari that’s on display.

“Not expensive enough,” I say with a smirk as I turn to him. “So many to choose from. Maybe I’ll get one in each color.”

“Ferraris are so last year,” he says, shaking his head as he stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Hyundai. Now that’s what all of the elite are buying this year. I can see you driving a nice used Hyundai Accent.”

I narrow my eyes on him. “And I can see you explaining to your parents why they’re not getting any grandkids.”

He gulps.

“Yeah. You’re not getting out of this one.”

I don’t even want a Ferrari. I just want to watch him squirm.

What am I going to do with a Ferrari in a small town like Summerland? Park it at the only diner in town next to a tractor?

This is all just to mess with him like he’s messing with me.

“Hello, Mr. McMillan,” a salesman says as he rushes over. He looks like he should be in a used car dealership—not a Ferrari dealership—with the white powder from his donut still stuck to his clip-on tie. At least I hope it’s icing sugar and not nose sugar, but this is Vegas after all, so you never know.

“Your father said you were going to be stopping by.”

Tyler shakes the man’s hand. “Nice to see you again, Harvey. I’m looking for a wedding present for my hot new wife.”

Harvey turns to me with a warm smile. “You definitely came to the right place. What are you driving now?”

“A bike.”

He laughs. He thinks I’m joking, but I’m not. It’s yellow and it has a big basket on the front. I love it.

Harvey smiles as he points to a sleek red Ferrari that’s raised above the others on a stage. “Let’s see what we can upgrade you with.”

I grin at Tyler as I hook my arm around Harvey’s. “Yes. Let’s go see.”

Tyler shuffles behind us as I look around with my chin in the air. “I need something with a large trunk. I’m going to be doing a lot of shopping now that I’m Mr. McMillan’s wife, and I need something that can carry my many bags.”

“How many bags are we talking?” Harvey asks.

“Yeah,” Tyler grunts from behind us. “How many bags are we talking?”

I glance back at him over my shoulder and grin. “A lot.”

Harvey slides his arm out of mine and darts to the front of the Ferrari parked on the stage. “This is our top model,” he says, smiling widely. “The GTB engine has six hundred and sixty horsepower at eight thousand rpm.”

“I don’t care about all of that,” I say, waving a hand at him. “I need trunk space for my daily shopping trips now that I’m Tyler’s hot new wife.”

Tyler steps up beside me as Harvey pops the trunk open. “As you can see it has plenty of space,” Harvey says, waving his hand into the empty trunk. “Even enough for a middle-aged man who likes to eat too many donuts.”

I laugh as he climbs in, happy that it is only icing sugar on his tacky tie.

“See?” he says, laying down inside the trunk. “Tons of room for bags. Enough for Armani, Gucci, Michael Kor—”

Tyler closes the trunk with a bang, interrupting Harvey’s sales pitch. I feel guilty for laughing at poor Harvey who’s locked in the trunk, but it doesn’t stop me from bursting out in giggles.

“You’re killing me here,” Tyler says, looking at me with narrowed eyes.

I clasp my hands together while I kick my leg out behind me and bat my eyelashes like I’m in an episode of I Love Lucy. “All in a day’s work for a pretty little wife.”

Harvey starts banging on the inside of the trunk. His muffled voice comes through between thumps. “Excuse me.”

“Are you going to let him suffocate?”

Tyler stares me down. “Are you going to let me go broke?”

“Are you going to make me break your mother’s heart?”

We stare each other down for ten heated seconds before he reaches down and pops the trunk back open.

Harvey climbs out, laughing nervously. “So, that’s the trunk.”

I keep my eyes locked on Tyler. “Good to know that I can fit a dead body in there. I might have to before this is all over.”

He smirks. “It’s not nice to threaten to kill your husband.” He turns to Harvey and nods his head. “We’ll take it!”

Harvey’s face lights up with a wide smile before he sprints away to get the paperwork.

A heaviness settles in my stomach as guilt crashes down on me. “Tyler, no,” I say, shaking my head. “I was just messing around. It’s too much.”

Tyler shrugs. “It’s only half a million dollars.”

“I don’t need a car,” I say, feeling both awful that he thought I was serious and honored that he’s willing to spend that much money on me. “And I certainly don’t need a Ferrari.”

“Well,” he says with a smirk as Harvey runs back, clutching the contract to his chest, “you’re getting one.”

I try to convince him otherwise, but he just ignores me as he signs the contract on the hood of the car and hands over his American Express black card.

And just like that—I own a Ferrari.

* * *

“I told you I didn’t want it.”

Tyler just smiles as he shoves the new key into my hand. “You told me you didn’t want the drink when we first met, but that didn’t stop you from taking it.”

“Yeah,” I say with a laugh. “And look how that turned out. How do you keep making me do things I don’t want to do?”

“My charm? Good looks? Winning personality?”

I shake my head slowly as I study him. “No. That’s not it.”

“You can’t control yourself around me,” he says, walking around to the passenger’s side of my brand-new unwanted Ferrari. “Just admit it.”

I shake my head, but that must be it. What else explains me waking up naked in his bed? As much as I hate to admit it, Tyler does something to my body. He has some kind of control over it on the most basic primitive level that my sane, conscious mind can’t reach.

But once I figure out how to turn it off, I’ll be back to being in control.

“Get in,” he says before his head disappears under the shiny red roof.

I take a deep breath and open the door of the car. Wow. This is not a car. A car is what I drove around town until the bumper fell off in front of the barber shop. This is a Ferrari. It’s a driving machine.

I’m surrounded by smooth leather as I slide into the bucket seat, moaning as it massages my ass cheeks like a master masseuse. My breath quickens as I glide my palms over the sleek red steering wheel. This is what heroin must feel like to a junkie. It’s what boobs must feel like to a teenage boy. Is it possible to have a love affair with a car? Because I’m in love.

“I told you,” I say, my words coming out in a breathless mess as I look around the interior of this dream machine, “I don’t need a—”

The words drop out of my throat when I see Tyler sitting next to me looking gorgeous in the beautiful car. He looks like this car was made for him as he leans back in the bucket seat, grinning as he watches me. He’s wearing ripped up jeans with a black polo that rides up high on his muscular tattooed arms. I wonder what I look like beside him. Can I pass as his wife, or do I look like his overworked maid? I guess we’ll find out at the party tonight.

“Just start the car,” he says, pulling out his sunglasses. God, he looks even hotter with sunglasses on.

“Fine,” I say as my finger hovers over the start button. “But I’m not going to change my min—”

The Ferrari rumbles to life when I push the button. It purrs like a wild tiger, sending heat rushing through me. My cheeks redden, and my body tingles as the seats vibrate under me, making the heat settle between my legs.

Yup. I’m definitely in love with this car.

“See?” he says, turning to me with a knowing smile. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re crazy if you think I’m keeping this car.” Please let me keep this car. How can I go back to riding my old, squeaky bike after sitting in this beast?

“You’re keeping it,” he says casually as he opens the window. “Hey, Harvey. Can you have someone drive my car back to my pop’s place?”

“Definitely, sir,” Harvey says as Tyler tosses him the keys. “I’ll have someone drive it over right away.”

My heart is beating so fast as I slowly pull out of the parking lot, terrified that a bird is going to take a dump on the hood or that I’ll roll over a wad of gum.

Adrenaline surges through my veins as I pull onto the street, going as fast as the elderly couple shuffling down the sidewalk beside me.

“This is a Ferrari, not a baby stroller,” Tyler says with a laugh. “You’re going to have to push on the gas with your foot.”

My head flies back into the seat as we surge forward, way too fast.

“Not that hard,” Tyler says, laughing. “Just relax.”

It takes about ten minutes of driving around the back streets before I’m comfortable enough to head onto the busier roads.

“Everyone keeps looking at us,” I say, feeling self-conscious as people on the sidewalk take videos of us as we drive by.

Tyler chuckles. “They want to see who’s behind the wheel of a Ferrari. You better get used to it.”

“I feel like a queen,” I say with a giggle. “Move aside peasants. A rich bitch is coming through.”

I turn down a road that I’ve never been on and gasp when I see what’s ahead: A huge blinking sign with a large pineapple on top.

The Pineapple Chapel.

My stomach turns rock hard as we approach it. Tyler’s knee is bouncing up and down like a basketball as he looks at it through the windshield.

“The scene of the crime,” he mutters. “Should we go renew our vows?”

I don’t know why I turn into the parking lot, but I do.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

My mouth is so dry as I pull into a parking spot. “I have to go in and see if I can remember what happened.”

Tyler doesn’t say a thing. He just nods, takes off his seatbelt, and steps out of the car.

The chapel is even tackier than I imagined it would be. It’s the marriage equivalent of fast food, complete with a drive-through.

It’s a place where mistakes are made, vows are broken, and plastic pineapples are admired. I can’t help but wonder how many families were disappointed by this place as I turn the pineapple shaped doorknob and walk in.

“Wow,” Tyler says, looking around at the tacky pineapple wallpaper and carpeting. “It’s like Disney World for people who really love pineapples.”

“I wouldn’t want to meet those people,” I say, cringing as I look at a gaudy pineapple centerpiece on the reception desk.

“We’re those people, apparently,” Tyler mutters as he picks up a Bible off the table. It has a pineapple stitched onto the cover.

The small reception area is empty, and no one has come to see us. “Where is everyone?” I ask, looking around. “You’d think they’d have someone to greet us considering this is business hours.”

Tyler laughs. “I don’t think they have people getting married here during the day.”

“In here,” I say, waving him over when I pop my head into a doorway. It’s the small chapel room where we must have gotten married. There’s about six folding chairs spewed around the room in no particular order, a dozen pineapple-themed slot machines lining the walls, and the podium in front which, of course, is shaped like a pineapple. There’s also an Asian man dressed up like Elvis sleeping on the floor. In other words: it’s classy as fuck.

“Wow,” Tyler says, chuckling as he walks in. “We really went all out for our wedding.”

“Out of our minds,” I mutter as I walk over to Asian Elvis, holding my nose as I bend down to wake him up.

“I wonder if his singing sounds any better than his snoring,” Tyler says, walking up behind me.

I shake his rhinestone-covered shoulder, but he doesn’t wake up. He’s in a whiskey coma.

“Let me try,” Tyler says, clearing his throat. “And now, put your hands together for the one true King of rock and roll: Asian Elvis!”

The man springs up into a sitting position, wiping his eyes as he gives us a “thank you very much” in a thick Chinese Elvis accent. He looks around in confusion for a minute and then frowns when he sees us and not a huge crowd of Asian Elvis fans (if such a thing exists).

“Your shit is over there,” he says, pointing behind me as he lies back down on the pineapple carpet.

I clear my throat as I stare at him. “Our shit?”

He sighs as he takes his golden sunglasses and puts them over his bloodshot eyes. “Your mugs, lady. Your tacky plastic mugs.”

I glance back at Tyler and scoff. I can’t believe this guy’s rudeness. This is a business after all.

“That’s really rude,” I say, turning back to him. Elvis would be rolling in his grave, if he is actually dead. “I’m a paying customer!”

“You were a customer,” he corrects. “We don’t get repeat customers.”

I snort out a laugh. “So, you’re telling me that no one who gets married here gets a divorce?”

“That’s great news,” Tyler says from behind me. The nasty look I shoot him shuts him up real fast.

“I find that hard to believe,” I say to the sleeping King.

He sighs. “They may get divorced, but they’re not stupid enough to marry some random stranger in Vegas, again. That’s one mistake you only make once in your life.”

I stare at him, speechless, although he does have a point. I know I definitely won’t be returning here (hopefully).

“Stuff is over there,” he says, pointing behind me with his eyes still closed. “No refunds. The videos have been mailed.”

I nearly choke. “Videos?”

“Wedding videos you ordered,” he says. “They have been mailed.”

“To who?” I say, nearly having a panic attack.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Tyler says with a shrug. “We were probably so drunk that we scribbled nonsense on the envelopes.”

God, I hope he’s right.

Tyler makes his way to the back, and I get up to follow him. There’s a cardboard box on the counter stacked full of cheap plastic mugs.

“Wow,” Tyler says when he pulls one out of the box. “I can’t wait to show this wedding photo to our grandkids.”

I grab the mug out of his hands and stare at it with disbelieving eyes. “What the hell happened that night?”

My hands can’t stop shaking as I stare at the photo. So, it’s true. We’re married.

In the photo, I’m wearing a white plastic dress with a pineapple bra on the outside, looking like the crackhead version of the little mermaid. Instead of sea shells on my boobs, I have pineapples. I wish that was the worst part of the photo, but it’s only the beginning. Tyler has a ball gag strapped in his mouth, like he’s in a scene out of Pulp Fiction, and I’m holding up a leather whip.

Our twisted, fucked up faces make the photo look more like a mugshot than a wedding photo. The picture looks like it should be on the evening news over a heading of: Wanted For Arrest! Crystal meth drug dealers. Call if you have any information, instead of on our fireplace mantel.

My stomach hardens as the cruel realization that this is actually me settles in.

“A ball gag? A whip? Where did we get all of this stuff?” Tyler asks, staring at another mug.

“I need some air,” I say, feeling like I’m going to be sick. I toss the mug into the box and rush out of the chapel, taking big gulps of air once I’m back in the parking lot.

Tyler comes out a minute later, holding a mug in his hand.

“What’s that?” I shout, pointing at it like it’s cursed. “Why are you taking one?”

His face softens as he stands in front of me. “We got married, Dahlia,” he says after taking a deep breath. “Even if we were drunk or drugged or whatever, we still loved each other enough to get married. Even if it was for only five minutes, and even if we can’t remember it now. It still happened. We loved each other enough to say those eternal vows.”

My heart skips a beat as he adoringly looks down at the mug in his hand.

“I don’t know what happened that night, but I do know that I would never marry someone who I didn’t love completely. We may not remember it, or want to believe that it happened, but it did. Why wouldn’t I want to keep a memento of that night? Of that moment? It’s part of my life now, and I want to remember it.”

I take a few deep breaths then storm back into the chapel, coming out a few seconds later with a mug of my own.

Tyler smiles when he sees the mug in my clenched hands. He opens his mouth.

“Don’t say anything!” I snap, charging past him to my new car.

He just grins as he follows me in.

“Anything!”

Once we’re back on the road, he turns to me. “I only like it because your eyes are all squiggly,” he says, cutting the tension.

I laugh, feeling better than I have since I first pulled into the chapel. “Ugh,” I say when I glance down at the mug in his hands. “They are all squiggly.”

“They’re not that bad,” he whispers, smiling as he looks down at the photo.

I shake my head as I giggle. “We’re going to have kids with tattooed arms and squiggly eyes.”

Tyler laughs for a moment, and then his face drops. “Wait,” he says, jerking his head toward me. “Are you pregnant?”

“No,” I snap back. “Definitely not. I know my body, and I can tell with a hundred percent accuracy that I’m not.”

I turn to the side window so that Tyler can’t see my panicked face. Oh, God! Please don’t let me be pregnant!

It’s then that I remember the almost empty box of Magnum condoms in my purse. Hopefully, we used protection.

Chances are, I’m not pregnant. That should be a good thing. But for some reason, it just leaves an empty feeling in me.

Is it bad that a small part of me wants more than a cheap plastic mug as a memento of that night?

I cringe when I look down at the photo once again. Yes, it’s bad, Dahlia. Those two cracked-out people should definitely not be having kids!