Page 5

White. It’s white. What is it about girls wearing white? It feels like a challenge to get them messed up.

“Jax, hi,” she says, holding out a hand to me in that way she does. Shoulders back, spine straight, stilted. This woman’s guard is never down. She never rests, or at least not when she’s in my company.

Which, the club psych would probably tell me, is why she’s a challenge I’d like to conquer. That and the⁠—

Interesting. The significant emerald that’s usually on the fourth finger of her left hand – her other half’s overcompensation for his lack of personality – is not there.

Trouble in Paradise? Pun intended. Because I’d like to cause trouble in Paradise, Nevada.

But the businesslike handshake I accept tells me how unlikely that is to happen. “Sienna,” I say. “Are you here to have fun or to watch my six?”

She raises one eyebrow behind those wide-rimmed shades. “That probably depends on whether you start being unruly, but if it’s okay with you, I’d like to enjoy a break for a couple days.”

“I’ll do my best, boss.”

I swear I don’t mean to, but I give her that crooked smile I’ve been using for the last decade, the one that’s my picking up women look, perfected as a teenager in the high school locker rooms at the rink.

As I do, Amelie slips an arm around Sienna’s shoulders and tells me, “Put that look right back in your pants from whence it came, fly boy.”

I chortle. Tray’s wife has got my number. In fact, most of the WAGs have and they cockblock me from all their hot friends. “I’m not so bad, am I?”

She leans her head to one side to tell me my question might as well be rhetorical. “I need to steal Sienna for girls’ night, while you boys keep my husband sober enough to marry me ten tiiiiimes tomorrow.”

I put my hands to my ears. “Please God, no chick squeals.”

She flicks my arm as she drags Sienna inside, though I watch my PR’s fine ass go, and I guess I’m waiting for her to throw me a second glance. Look across her shoulder suggestively. Give me an indication as to why she’s no longer sporting a big fat emerald on her finger.

It doesn’t happen. I am shit out of luck there and I know it.

Guys’ night it is.

3

AUGUST

Sienna

30-ish Hours Later

I wake feeling as if I’ve had the best Pilates reformer class of my life. My core is sore and my thighs feel like jelly and strong all at once. Groaning, I reach my arms over my head, squirming in the softness of the insane thread count of the bedsheets I’m lying on. The sun shines on my face, yet the room is pleasantly cool, and smells divine, like sandalwood and cocoa.

Hold up…

I open one eye to see intricately decorated drapes framing a wall of windows that has a view right out across the Spring Mountains of Nevada. Vegas. I’m in Las Vegas.

“Urgh.” Suddenly, my body registers that my mouth feels as dry as the desert. There’s a pounding in my head like a steel drum band. Was there a steel drum band yesterday?

I bolt upright in what appears to be a king-size bed. There was a steel band. At ceremony number… God knows. It was Caribbean themed, perhaps mid-afternoon, and I remember choosing a carnival outfit to wear from that particular chapel – wild headdress, dazzling arm cuffs and all. I drank a lethal rum punch and might still be able to taste the remnants of nutmeg.

Tray and Amelie renewed their vows ten times yesterday, in ten chapels off the strip. There was drinking. Lots and lots of cocktails – one for each ceremony, matched to the theme and the selection of costume dress made available in the chapels by the wedding planner. There were sore feet, no shoes, piggy backs and dancing.

Then… what?

And where the hell am I?

This is not my room. While some of the finishing touches resemble those in my own room, I am currently waking at significantly higher altitude and with a substantially less restricted view, but I’d surmise I’m still in the Pharaoh Hotel. In a ginormous suite.

I reach to the bedside table and spin the digital clock to face me: 10:26.