There’s a ring on my finger and a man in my bed. Neither was there yesterday, and neither was in my plans. Hello, Vegas, you tricky bitch.

I don’t have to look to know Mason Dahl is the man holding me. I know it’s him—just like when you wake in the middle of the night, disoriented from a nightmare, and before you open your eyes, your heart rate slows because you know you’re home.

He has one strong arm slung across my waist and his bare chest pressed against my back. His lips skim across my shoulder. “Good morning,” he says, his voice a low rumble that makes my body awaken like the smooth slide of his skin against mine.

Reaching toward the ceiling, I hold my hand above our bodies. “There’s a ring on my finger.”

“I’ve got one of those too,” he says, and he’s so casual about it. His mouth opens against my neck, warm and teasing, before his kisses turn to little nibbles. He slides a hand up my bare stomach to cup my breast, and my mind latches on to the possibility of this as my new life—of feeling Mason’s tender kisses every morning, of getting to talk to him after a bad day, of sleeping in his bed and waking in his arms. I’ve spent years coming to terms with that life being some other girl’s reality. I never let myself imagine it could be mine.

With a hand on my shoulder, he guides me to my back, and his gorgeous green eyes lock on mine as he positions himself on top of me. “You know how long I’ve been lying here waiting for you to wake up?”

A moan escapes my lips at the weight of him right where I want him, but I force myself to focus. I press my hands to his chest before he can lower his mouth to mine. “Why is there a ring on my finger?” But my brain has been lulled into submission by the feel of his body, and all logic must have abandoned me, because I don’t sound the least bit panicked. My words are soft and low, almost flirty.

“I’m pretty sure we got married.” His eyes crinkle in the corners. He is so goddamned good-looking that it makes me want to forget the panic I should be feeling. Behind that smile is a man who dated me when I was still a stripper and treated me like I was precious. This is the guy who wiped my tears and held me through my sobs as I grieved for another man. This is the man who waited and fought for me even when I didn’t deserve it.

If a girl is going to wake up in Vegas, surprise-married to someone, she couldn’t do much better than Mason Dahl.

“We can’t be married.” I mentally catalogue last night: dinner, burlesque show, dancing, and too many drinks at every stop. I’m trying really hard to concentrate on finding rational Bailey somewhere beneath all this lust and longing, but she’s hiding. Coward.

Maybe I’m still a little drunk. When we were drinking last night, I figured we’d end up sleeping together. I hoped. I wanted him . . . just one more time. I still do.

My legs part instinctively, letting him settle between them. His face softens, and his eyes float closed as he exhales. “Fuck, I’ve missed this.”

Me too. God, have I missed it. He feels so damn good—hot skin and hard muscle, like he woke up ready to touch me, thinking only of touching me. His eyes open again and lock on mine, and I know his thoughts haven’t strayed off course.

Sleeping with Mason is one thing. But marrying him? Maybe this is a dream; maybe I don’t have to be logical about anything and can just enjoy. Panic fights its way to the surface of my consciousness, but I push it away and draw my knees up to his waist. We can deal with these pesky rings later, can’t we? I want to relish this moment.

I can’t. The ache in my heart won’t let me. No matter how good he feels here. No matter how much I’ve missed him.

His gaze drops to my breasts, his lips twisted in raw hunger. I take his face in my hands, guiding him to meet my gaze. “Focus.”

“I’m pretty damn focused.”

Dear God. I didn’t even realize how much I missed that husky rumble of his voice. Goosebumps dance across my skin, and my thighs clench instinctively. I long for the feel of his breath against my ear as he slides inside me.

He dips his head and presses a kiss to the top of one breast and then the other. I arch into him, because that mouth . . . “Was there somewhere in particular you wanted me to focus? I aim to please.”

I don’t want to protest. I want to sink into the pleasure of his tongue flattening against my nipple and the gentle pressure of his hand cupping my breast. “Focus on the rings we’re wearing,” I say weakly.

“But they’re not nearly as interesting as your body.” He pauses a beat and lifts his head to meet my gaze. “Unless they mean I get to taste you every morning.”

Every morning. “No.” Now the panic surges, more powerful, bringing a wave of nausea with it. “This is a disaster.”

He rolls off me and sits on the side of the bed, scraping a hand over his face. “Not the way I hoped to start our first day as husband and wife.”

I gape. “You can’t be serious.”

He tosses a glance at me over his shoulder. “We’re fucking great together.” He swallows. “Or we were. Once. Is it really the worst thing that could have happened?”

No. The worst is knowing I have to undo it. The worst is knowing I have what I want in my hands and a past that requires me to give it back. This isn’t the worst. This is just a ripple in the pond of my mediocre life. This is just fate teasing me with what I can’t have. “We can’t be married.”

“Of course. Because you don’t want me unless you’re drunk or I’m offering a no-strings night in my bed.”

I don’t flinch. Other girls might, but not me. Why flinch when it’s true?

My phone buzzes, and the sound of Mia’s ringtone makes me wilt. My sole job for the next two weeks is to not fuck up Mia’s perfect day. We’re in Vegas for her bachelorette party, and in two weeks it will be her wedding. I want to go to her and tell her I woke up married. I want to beg her to help me fix it. Mia is a fixer, and when she can’t fix, she listens. But telling her would open a whole can of worms I’m not prepared to deal with, so I ignore the phone.

“We really got married?” I sound weak. Helpless.

Mason stands, and I can’t help but watch as he swaggers toward the minibar and pulls out a bottle of water. He unscrews the cap and drains half of it in one long pull before replying, “We did.”

“Wh-why?” How drunk was I that I thought that was a good idea? How drunk was I that I believed I was someone else—someone good enough for him, someone who hasn’t made promises that can’t be broken?

He winces then grabs a second bottle of water and brings it to me. “Drink this.”

I sit up in bed and take a sip. My stomach rolls in protest. I have to fix this, and fast. “Can we keep this quiet?”

“What exactly are we keeping quiet?”

I hold up my hand. “This marriage? This ring? Oh my God.” I yank it off my finger, grab his hand, and press it into his open palm. “The media is going to go crazy if they catch wind.”

He searches my face. “It would make an okay story, but not an outrageous one. NFL player marries old friend in Vegas?” He shrugs, as if the idea of our mistake flashing in headlines is of no consequence to him.

Shit, fuck, damn. What have I done?

He got the headline wrong. It would read, NFL player marries stripper in Vegas. And he’s wrong about the other part, too. The media would love this story. They’d make it out to be outrageous and dig for dirt on me—not that it would be hard to get something juicy. The stripper thing isn’t exactly a secret, and it would probably satisfy them enough that they wouldn’t bother to dig deeper. Please, God, don’t let them dig deeper.

There are other people who wouldn’t love the story of our impulsive marriage, people who’d be quick to remind me I’ve made promises.

“We can’t let that happen. Mia and Arrow—their wedding,” I stammer. There’s a special place in Best Friend Hell where I’ll burn for using Mia as an excuse to keep this mistake quiet. “We can’t have the media hounding us for a story when the next two weeks should be about them. The last thing Mia needs right now is me stealing the show with my drama.” My phone rings again, and again the ringtone tells me it’s her. She’s probably wondering where I am. I can’t avoid her much longer. “Can we just keep this quiet and figure it out on our own?”

“Sure thing.” His jaw is hard as he digs my phone from my purse and tosses it on the bed. “It’ll be our secret.” Then he walks to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, his anger rolling off him in waves and making me feel like a world-class bitch.