Two miles later, my shoes are dangling in my hand, the back of my heel is rubbed raw, the rocks are hurting my feet, and I’m probably married to Nate Wexler.

Of all these things, I’m not sure which is the most uncomfortable.

“We didn’t even sign a pre-nup,” I tell him. He flinches, and I’m surprised his hand doesn’t instantly fly to his wallet. “Relax. I’ve got enough money. I don’t need to hit you up for anything.”

“Let’s focus on not dying in the desert, and afterwards I’ll walk you through all the delights of divorce litigation,” he tells me. His temples are slick with sweat, and he stumbles a little bit on a rock.

Uh oh. If he goes down, there’s no way I’ll be able to drag him. I mean, it’d be hilarious, but impossible.

Or maybe I could just stretch him out on the side of the road and give in to the passion one last time before our inevitable deserty death.

Man. Getting stranded makes you morbid and inappropriately horny.

“We might not really be married,” I say.

“We might not. But as Sherlock Holmes said, once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” Nate sighs.

I smile. “I should’ve pegged you for a Holmesian. Logic, aloofness, doing whatever your friends need even though you pretend like you don’t have human emotions.” I sigh playfully. “I’m surprised you don’t have a deerstalker hat. Now that would’ve been a fun role play. Sherlock Holmes was probably dynamite in bed.”

“Oh, I guarantee it,” he says, gazing right into my eyes. His gaze is hypnotic, electric, even at the most inopportune times. I think he means to be funny, but it doesn’t feel like that.

“Well, Benedict Cumberbatch is my favorite Holmes, so I’m right with you there.” I laugh, a little breathless. Though maybe the breathless part is because we’re hiking in a damn desert without water.

We’re silent for a bit, and all I can think of is, holy shit. I might be married to this guy. Mom will flip out. She’ll say it’s too fast for me to be married to someone else. Then she’ll make a Velveeta and macaroni dish, sit Nate down on the couch, and show him all the family pictures I managed to upload to iPhoto for her. She’ll tell him every single detail of every single member of our family. Hope Nate likes seeing my grandpa’s Illinois neighborhood back in the Great Depression, and the luau our Hoboken branch of the family threw in the 70s. Grass skirts, coconut bras, the works.

All kidding aside, this is pretty fucking serious.

“That was kind of a stupid move back there,” Nate says. At first I think he’s talking about himself, but then I notice he’s fixed me with a particularly irritated gaze. So I pull us to a quick stop.

“Excuse me? I wasn’t the one who grabbed a gun and started waving it around without a clue of how to use it,” I say, slipping my arm out of his.

“I wouldn’t have had to do anything that drastic if you hadn’t stomped on that man’s foot. And then kicked him in the balls. And then in the side.” Nate wipes his forehead; he’s red-faced, sweaty, and looking for someone to blame. “They would’ve given us a ride back to town if you hadn’t—”

“Pulled a gun on them and threatened to shoot?” I ask, really drawing the words out. Nate pauses. Yeah, that’s right, Wexler. Gun trumps nut kick. “For all we knew, we were in real trouble. I had to do something, didn’t I?”

“That something would’ve gotten you killed if it hadn’t been pretend,” he snaps. “Doesn’t that matter?”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have had to go Death Wish on those assholes if you’d done something yourself.” I cross my arms. “Yeah, you probably had your hands loose a while before, and you didn’t do shit.”

“I was thinking about how to react,” he says with that maddening magna cum laude tone of his. “If you don’t think, you’re no better than an animal.”

“And if you don’t react when you’re threatened, or someone you care about is threatened, you’re no better than a computer!” I yell.

Nate tilts his head. “Someone you care about?” he echoes.

Oh, shit. My cheeks are flushed solely because of the desert. That’s it.

“Hypothetically. Isn’t that a word you lawyers love? You’re all crazy about hypothetical bullshit,” I grumble, and stomp ahead. I don’t recommend stomping on hot sand and rocks in your bare feet, but dammit, this moment called for a stomp.

Nate sighs. “Come back,” he says.

“Save your apologies,” I call behind me. I hear his footsteps crunching behind me, catching up. Well, when he does, we can have a good talk—

I’m swept off my feet. Literally. Nate grunts, but hefts me into his arms and walks.

“What are you doing?” I say.

“The ground’s hurting your feet,” Nate says. He shrugs, a little difficult while carrying me. “I wanted to give you a rest for a bit.”

“I can walk,” I say, though it’s a little sullen. Nate grins.

“I know. But I wanted to be a gentleman about it.”

This guy. Can anyone figure this guy out? One minute he’s lecturing me, the next he’s pulling a John Wayne and carrying me out of the desert. It’s kind of exasperating. Maybe a little sexy, too.

“Well. Let me know if you get tired,” I say. He’s moving pretty well, though. Must work out. I mean, if his body looks like it felt last night, he must work out a lot.

“I’ll put you back down when we reach that mirage right in front of us,” he grumbles.

I look ahead. I see it. Damn, it’s a good mirage, too. It’s a squat white and blue painted building rippling ahead in the desert heat. A wooden sign has a picture of a cherry pie on it, and letters that spell out the word DINER on top of that . . . .

Wait a minute. No mirage is that detailed.

“On second thought,” Nate says, relief flooding his voice. “I think we’re saved.”

I’m not even listening now; I scramble out of his arms, shoes still clutched in my hand, and charge over to the building. I don’t even feel the hot sand and rocks on my feet any longer. Whoever decided to build a diner along a desolate stretch of highway in the middle of Nevadan nowhere gets my unadulterated love forever and ever.

I pull open the door, a bell tinkling overhead, and a blast of perfect, air-conditioned air hits me.

“Yo! No shoes, no service,” the man behind the counter yells. He’s got a craggy face and an even craggier personality.

Whatever. I abide by your rules, slinger of pie and refreshments. As I tug my sandals back on, Nate comes up beside me.

“Treat you to a glass of water?” he asks. He seems as relieved as I feel.

“Love one.” We walk in and slide into a red vinyl booth. The seat is cracked and stuffing is sticking out of it, but right now it’s the sweetest sight ever.

The craggy guy brings us each a glass of water, and we suck them down. I even pick up an ice cube and run it over my forehead, luxuriating in the icy perfection of it all.

“Feeling better?” Nate asks, leaning back in his seat. He’s definitely sweaty, the dampness of his shirt accentuating the perfect lines of his torso. I don’t mind.

“Maybe we should get some pie to celebrate?” I ask.

“I can’t have too many sweet things in the day,” he says, closing his eyes in relief. “It interferes with the metabolism.”

“You drink kale smoothies?” I ask. “With lemon juice?”

“No.” He makes a pained expression. “I’m just careful with what I eat.”

“Probably a good thing if we’re not married,” I say, shrugging. “For me, a little sugar in the day is the way of life. There’s supposed to be this all jelly bean store somewhere in Vegas that I’ve been dying to go to.”

“I’m shuddering just thinking about it,” he says. He pulls out his phone, checks it, and smiles. “Full bars. All right. Be right back, and then I’ll call a cab.” He puts the phone on the table and gets up.

“First nature calls, then you?” I grin at him.

“Thanks for phrasing it in such a delicate fashion,” he says. But I think he sounds amused.

“It’s what I’m here for.”

He walks away, and I run another ice cube down my forehead, along my cheek, riiiight into my cleavage. It’s necessary. What can I tell you? A man that cold is also very hot.

Okay. Enough with the temperature jokes.

Nate’s phone rings, and I jump in my seat a little. Then I frown. Who the hell set his ring tone to “Blame Canada” from South Park? Weird choice.

Oh wait, shit. I did that. I remember now. My bad.

I grab the call without even thinking.

Well, actually, that’s a lie. I have been thinking. And when I see the caller ID—Phoebe Barnes—I instinctively jump all over that shit. This has to be the Phoebe, the one who stomped on his heart and paraded off into the sunset with her soul mate.

“Hello?” I say when I answer, already feeling like an idiot who didn’t think this through.

“Who the hell is this?” a woman shouts.

I wince and hold the phone away from my ear. Man, I really thought a guy like Nate would be into classier women.

Then again, he had spent a wild night with me.

Yeah, I probably don’t want to fling too many insults around at women Nate’s slept with.

“This is—uh, ah, uhm. How can I help you?”

“Where’s Nate?” she snaps.

Man, it sounds like something crawled straight up this woman’s ass.

“In the bathroom. Uh. How are you?” I wince.

Great job, loser.

“I know he’s in Las Vegas. And now I can’t find Peebles. Do you think that’s a coincidence?” the woman screams, her voice rising higher and higher.

Wow. You could shatter glass at this pitch.

“Let’s start with the basics. What is a Peebles?” I ask.

“Tell that asshole to call me back!” Phoebe shouts, and the line goes dead.

Good. Remind me never to pick up on a one-night stand’s crazy ex. Especially when I might be married to said one-night stand.

When Nate returns, I hand him the phone. “You, ah, need to call Phoebe back,” I tell him.

His face kind of goes slack, and my stomach does a small swan dive. That’s the kind of face you make when someone you still have a thing for gets in touch for mysterious reasons. Trust me, I know that look well. I had to stand in the mirror for hours in the months after my separation from Drew, training my facial muscles not to do that.

“Did she say what she wanted?” he asks.

I’m sure he wishes that she did nothing but coo sweet nothings and weep bitter tears of heartbreak. Instead, I have to go with the truth.

“She screamed obscenities and asked if I knew where Peebles was. Is Peebles, like, some kind of rare artifact or something?”

Nate looks as astonished as I feel. “Peebles. Holy shit,” he says, his eyes adopting a kind of weird light.

“Am I supposed to guess, or?”

“Peebles is Phoebe’s special gray spotted Tibetan parrot,” he explains, rubbing his hand across his sexy, gradually becoming stubbled jaw.

Man, he shouldn’t shave. This is a good look on him.

Fuck it, pay attention. We were talking about parrots. As you do in Vegas.

“So Phoebe lives in Vegas with Peebles and her fiancé. And this has what to do with us?” I ask.

“Don’t you remember last night?” he asks, looking incredibly grave.

I’m about to make an obvious comment, when a flash goes off in my mind. A flash of squawking gray feathers and hushed giggling.

We exchange an incredulous look, the memory apparently rushing back to us at the exact same time.

“Oh, shit,” I moan.