She Woke Up Married

Paris groaned and forced one eye open by an act of sheer redheaded willpower. Only one eye opened because the other one was stuck shut with a false eyelash. It was hard enough opening the one, because she’d really, really, had too much to drink last night, and it hurt to move her eyelids. She didn’t want to try moving the other parts of her body.

What a crappy, stupid way to start the second day of being thirty. Her brain felt like it had cotton balls glue-gunned to the inside of her skull. Come to think of it, the inside of her mouth felt the same way.

A horrid light pierced through a six-inch gap in the hotel curtains. She saw the distorted out
line of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. She knew damn well she wasn’t in France; she was in Las Vegas. A fuzzy sort of Vegas at the moment. What
had
she done last night?

A deep and extreme need arose in her. She needed coffee. Java. Mud. Hot and thick. Right now. For a minute she wondered if room service might just this once read her mind so she wouldn’t have to move any more of her body until a nice big cup of hot coffee was within reach.

The horrid light from the window kept glinting into her open eye. Actually it was glinting off something else in the room, causing a sort of disco-ball effect, which only made things worse. Paris wondered if she’d been so stupid as to wear that red sequined dress last night. Sequins made anyone look fat—and that dress had practically been sprayed on, like Ponytail Barbie’s Moonlight Serenade dress. She should throw it out, but sometimes a girl needs to put on red sequins—like maybe on her thirtieth birthday.

She blinked at the glittering disco light, and her sight focused on a white jacket hanging on the hotel desk chair close by. What the hell had she bought now? She raised her head an inch off the pillow and moved her hand up to the stuck-together eye, pulling at the false eyelash. All of that was extremely painful, and her need for coffee increased tenfold. She groaned. She sat up partway and flopped her head forward, a cur
tain of her own red hair blocking the view. Paris lifted her head slowly and parted the hair curtain, but something got stuck in her long curls. She yanked and freed her hand and looked down to see a very large, square-cut diamond ring on her left hand. When did she buy that?

Her two eyes refocused across the room to that white thing on the chair. It was an Elvis-style jacket with a big-ass collar and broad shoulders, and it was dancing in the sunlight. Her eyes moved to the floor below. There sat one pair of men’s white cowboy boots, complete with silver cording and silver studs to match.

What the hell
had
she done this time?

“Good morning, Mrs. Pruitt.”

Paris moved her head painfully, quickly, to her right. She sucked in a quick, searing breath and let out an involuntary, long, loud scream, clutching the sheets against her naked breasts and scrabbling herself to the far edge of the bed.

Beside her in the king-size bed was The King himself. Elvis incarnate. His sexy Elvis mouth was smiling at her. He was buck-naked, his head propped on his elbow, a hunk of his wavy black hair curled down on his forehead.

And speaking of hunks, at least he was a hunk a hunka burning love Elvis—the early years, instead of a hunka big ol’ later Elvis.

“Who the hell are
you?
” Paris croaked. Her voice was still asleep. She wished she were too.

She knew full well she’d gotten herself into this mess, but she needed some facts,
fast.

“Now, darlin’, that’s not the words a man wants to hear from his wife the morning after their wedding.”

“Wedding?
What
wedding?” Paris screeched. She looked down at that big-ass ring on her left ring finger again and screamed out loud—again.

“Let me order up some breakfast for you, dear. A big ol’ pot of coffee will help you remember.”

“Don’t call me dear. I’ll take that coffee, though.”

Hunka Love
got out of bed and rose to his full six-foot-four-inch naked glory. Paris actually got hot staring at him. She felt a flush of heat run up her neck and into her face.

“Well, at least you remember the package, if not the name. I guess that’s a good start. My, oh, my, you are a mess, woman. There’s an eyelash on your right breast, you know.”

She looked down at her exposed right breast vaguely, still lost in a lustful thought. He leaned back over the bed and reached for her. She flinched with surprise.

“Hold still now, this won’t hurt a bit.” His eyes were deep chocolate brown—almost black—and he stared into her eyes as he peeled the offending eyelash off the top of her breast and
handed it to her. “There now, you just sit tight. I’ll ring up some grub.”

Grub?
There was no way she’d actually married this cowboy Elvis dude, drunk or not. But she had to admit that she could see clearly why she’d seduced his gorgeous behind into her bed. As he walked away and gave her a terrific view of that behind, she had some scattered memories of unzipping that white Elvis jacket off his incredible body.

It dawned on her that since her birthday had been March 31, this was April Fool’s Day. Someone must have put this guy up to this. What a grand joke, really. It sort of reeked of Anton’s style.

It was actually a shame she didn’t remember more. Maybe she’d just have to ask him to recreate the fictional wedding night for her. Paris giggled to herself and pulled the sheet all the way off the bed, wrapping it around her like a toga. She just had to brush her teeth this instant. But handsome boy went in the bathroom ahead of her, so she’d just have to wait.

It didn’t take long, and when he came out of the restroom, he stood naked by the desk, talking on the phone. He seemed so comfortable in his nakedness.

“Yes please, ma’am, that’s Mr. and Mrs. Pruitt in the honeymoon suite.”

Honeymoon, my ass.
She was going to have to
set him straight, right after she had her coffee, and maybe some Elvis aka Mr. Pruitt for dessert…. Yum.

She ran her hand down his tan, muscular back as she rustled by him wrapped in her sheet. He twisted round her way to smile at her before he set the phone down. He was obviously happy to see her; a glance downward confirmed that. Oh, yeah, she’d already been a bad girl, so she might as well be bad again. Then she’d explain to Mr. Pruitt that the wedding had surely been a fake and that she had a plane to catch back to New York, and Thank You, Thank You Very Much.

Turner set down the phone and watched his new wife saunter into the bathroom, humming. He had always wanted to see Paris James happy at least once in her life, and he was damn glad it had been him who’d put that smile on her pouty lips, but he felt like he’d been hit by a freight train, waking up next to her this morning. What had happened? He steadied himself on the wall and let the shock wave run through him.

How the heck she’d ended up in his chapel in Las Vegas was something he’d wonder about for the rest of his life. There he’d been, belting out “How Great Thou Art” for the midnight service, when suddenly he’d looked down to see Paris James in a red sequin dress, staring up at him.

She’d been like a vision: same crazy red hair,
same beautiful, flashing green eyes. Granted, she’d had a champagne bottle in one hand and had been swigging straight out of it every few minutes. Also, it had been slightly indelicate of her to catcall at him to “Take it off, preacher boy! Take it all off!” But he’d thrown her his silk scarf just the same.

Turner pulled on his tighty-whities and his white double-knit Elvis pants. He wished he’d had the foresight to stop at his place and grab a change of clothes. His shirt was still in good shape—he’d hung it on the chair under his coat. He slid the shirt on and buttoned it up. He felt for his keys and wallet. Nothing. He’d probably done what he always did. He opened the hotel dresser top drawer and saw his wallet and keys, plus some papers. On closer examination, he realized it was the marriage certificate, a bad photograph, and a coupon for ten bucks’ worth of chips at The Dunes.

When Turner had seen Paris last night, he’d known it was fate. But marrying? How had that happened? He must have lost his mind, because what else could explain it? She’d seen him again, remembered him, and convinced him to make her his wife in one night. He turned to the dresser mirror to adjust his collar and saw a shocked, hardly-slept-at-all face looking back at him.

What the hell was he going to do now? He, levelheaded Turner, had done the most impul
sive, crazy thing he’d ever done in his life last night. He just wasn’t a drinker, and the last time he’d had that much champagne had been…never.

What a night. Truly, all his fantasies of her from the past paled in comparison to holding her in his arms and making love to her all night long. She was his completely. They’d taken their vows and consummated their marriage, and well, dang it, he was going to have to deal with it. There were some details to work out for sure. He didn’t want to hurt her.

Turner fussed with his collar. He wasn’t real clear on everything, except how he’d declared he couldn’t just have sex with her unless they were married. Obviously, that problem was solved. It was all pretty fuzzy after a certain point, but he started to remember what Paris had said to convince him to climb into her bed. She’d declared her modeling days were over. That at thirty she’d decided to quit and settle down, get married, and raise a family and that he was the guy for her. He’d been swept away in her birthday bash and had ended up with a wedding night. Kind of a combination special.

Room service knocked at the door and Turner went to answer it. A uniformed man smiled and rolled a cart in the door as Turner held it for him. He proceeded to set up a nice breakfast on the hotel room table, complete with a red rose.
Turner reached in his jacket pocket and paid the man a generous tip.

“Thank you, Reverend.” The server gave a nod and rolled his cart back toward the door. But Paris was blocking the way, having just emerged from the bathroom, still wrapped in a sheet. Her eyes were as wide as a green river and she was staring right at him, clutching the doorjamb for support. Very melodramatic of Mrs. Pruitt, Turner thought to himself, although he recalled he had to brace himself on the wall just now, too.

“Reverend?
Reverend?
” Her voice went up a notch.

“S’cuse me, ma’am,” the uniformed man said. He looked at her like she was nuts, shook his head, and pushed on out the door.

Turner cocked his head at his wife and smiled. “I see we’ve both forgotten more than a few details about last night. Come and have some coffee. We’ll talk.”

“I-I wasn’t expecting you to be a reverend. Listen…um…I have this habit of being a very naughty girl sometimes. I guess I really stretched myself last night, seducing a minister and all. I feel sort of…bad.” Paris had been inching toward the table, staring at the coffee. At least he’d figured out how to make her slow down. “So you aren’t someone’s April Fool’s joke on me, are you? Did someone put you up to this?”

“No, I’m not an April Fool’s joke. I swear. Sit down and join me, won’t you?” Turner was polite, but insistent. He could see Paris needed a refresher course straight off the bat. She seemed to have forgotten more than he had.

Paris sat. He reached in the hotel dresser drawer and pulled out the papers. He couldn’t believe she didn’t remember him from high school. Could he have changed that much?

He recalled that he hadn’t actually told her his first name since she’d woken up. He smiled to himself and wondered how long it would take her to remember him. She was still just staring at him and his clergy collar. Perhaps the light was starting to go on. He set the photo down in front of her but kept the certificate in his hand. Then he poured them both a cup of coffee and sat down across from her.

She picked up the coffee with two hands and took a big slurpy sip, her green eyes never leaving his face. Turner felt his mouth turn up into a smile. She was still the girl he’d known thirteen years ago. Still the same Paris.

Paris finally picked up the photograph of the two of them at the altar in front of…she guessed it right…
another
Elvis—but the heavier, fat, sideburn-years Elvis. They were kissing—she and Reverend Pruitt, that is. She had a fake rose bouquet and, amazingly enough, was wearing a
wedding dress. A white satin Marilyn Monroe in
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
kind of gown, with a little veil perched on her head.

“Now this just proves it’s not real, buddy,” she said as she pointed at the photograph. “I would never wear white satin to my real wedding. I look like a cow. Look at this picture. Look at my hips, for Christ’s sake. I look like two-ton Tessie. Oh, sorry about that Christ’s sake thing.”

“I forgive you,” he said. He smiled at her, stirred some milk into his coffee, then set the spoon down on his saucer.

“Ha-ha.”

“You rented the dress. That’s my own wedding chapel. It’s called the Graceland Chapel. That’s a friend of mine doing the ceremony. Let’s eat. This breakfast looks great.” Turner lifted the silver covers off each of their plates and set them aside.

“I rented a wedding dress and got married by an Elvis? That’s just too surreal.” Paris felt sick. She was too hungover to eat eggs. Turner, on the other hand, put enough pepper on his eggs to hide their color, added Tabasco sauce, then dove into his breakfast with gusto. Yuk.

She picked up a piece of toast and nibbled. As she nibbled and sipped coffee, dipped toast in her coffee and sipped more, it started to occur to her that preacher man here was less likely than most to lie about the authenticity of their mar
riage. Paris slowed her nibbling and sipping down to stop-action and stared at the man across the table from her with his clerical collar and Elvis pants. He seemed so familiar.

Oh my God.
Could
she have married him?

“Paris, we’ve got a great deal to talk about,” Turner said. He pointed at her with his fork. “Even though we’ve known each other a while, we did rush into this marriage, and now we’ll have to catch up with ourselves. We need to decide what to do about it. I have to tell you that despite the fact that we acted rashly, I consider marriage a sacred vow. After all, I own a wedding chapel in Vegas. If someone like me doesn’t consider it sacred, who will?” Turner laughed. He went back to eating his breakfast.