The Power Play

Landon:

“Buck up, soldier,” my friend Owen, star goalie for the Seattle Ice Hawks, says as he thumps one hand on my shoulder.

Easy for him to say. He’s engaged to the woman he loves, and is loved by adoring fans across the country. Basically, he’s got the world by the balls.

In comparison, my life feels like it’s on the brink of falling apart. But no one wants to hear me complain about that right now, because we all just flew in by private jet to celebrate Owen and Becca’s joint bachelor/bachelorette party in Sin City.

Yay.

Cue the sarcasm.

“I’m fine,” I say, tipping my chin toward the packed dance floor. “Go dance with your soon-to-be wife and quit bugging me.”

Owen’s gaze strays over to where his fiancée, Becca, is on the dance floor, moving her hips beside a couple of our female friends, one of them being Aubree Derrick. Aubree, the petite brunette with the killer curves and fiery attitude who captured my attention the second I met her. She’s a total smoke show. But I try not to let myself notice things like that about her, because the minute I do, I need to go on boner patrol.

My drink arrives as Aubree dances, or rather shimmies her ass in one direction and flails her arms in another. As I watch, I laugh for the first time all night, because dancing is clearly not her strong suit. But she’s still hot as fuck, and I can’t take my eyes off her.

The club is loud, almost deafening. Deep, sultry bass thumps around me, and the room is dim except for the flashing blue and purple lights. It’s been easy to go unnoticed, tucked inside the curved booth while the rest of our group makes good use of the dance floor.

I take a sip of the stiff drink in front of me, hoping it will calm some of the pent-up energy stewing inside me. From the outside, my life seems great . . . I’m a twenty-three-year-old rookie on one of the best hockey teams in the country, earning close to seven figures. But I didn’t get much ice time this season, and now I’m not sure where I stand with the team.

My future feels like it’s on the brink of collapsing, and all I can picture is having to move back home to live with my dad, and get a minimum-wage job at the shoe store I worked at in high school, while some other asshole is living my dream. I signed an entry-level contract, which means there are no guarantees. Next year could be it for me. If I don’t get more playing time, why the hell would Coach keep me? I’m an overpriced bench warmer. A bearded cheerleader.

I rub one hand across my stubbled jaw, remembering that I shaved a few days ago. Scratch that—I’m a sulky cheerleader minus the beard.

A few seconds later, the gorgeous Aubree slides into the booth next to me, and I scoot over to give her more space. “Why aren’t you dancing?” she asks, bringing the straw in her vodka soda to her lips to take a long drink.

Her pulse thrums steadily in her neck. She’s flushed and slightly breathless. My gaze strays to her lips before I can look away.

I shrug. “Don’t really feel like it.”

“You don’t have to babysit tonight, Covington. You can get drunk and make bad decisions along with the rest of us.” She smirks, watching me closely as she leans in and sucks on her straw again.

She’s referring to the fact that I usually abstain from drinking, happy to play the role of designated driver when the team goes out.

“This isn’t water,” I say, swirling the clear tequila in my glass, lifting a brow in her direction.

“Good.” She pulls a tube of lip gloss from her purse and runs it over her lips. Seriously, is she trying to taunt me? “For the record, I never thought that was fair that they made you play DD as the rookie on the team.”

I turn and glance at her. God, she’s like a cookie I want to bite into. “They didn’t make me. I choose not to drink during the season.”

“Oh.” Her mouth parts in surprise, and her eyes twinkle. “So you mean to say that you guarded our drinks while we danced, drove people home, and even humored drunken requests for burritos at all hours because of the kindness in your heart?”

I chuckle. “Something like that.”

“You’re one of the good guys, aren’t you, Covey?” She pats me on the thigh with one slender hand, and my groin tightens.

Aubree and I met for the first time earlier this year at a charity event. As the director of the team’s charity organization, she’s friendly with most of the players and their girlfriends, and has been a frequent member of this new crew I’ve found myself pulled into. But she’s never once expressed any interest in me. Never looked at me like I’m anything more than just the rookie on the team.

I’ve told myself it’s a good thing—that I don’t have time for distractions this season. But now she’s giving me a hungry, desire-filled look, and I’m weak as fuck.

Aubree slowly pulls her hand away and adjusts the spaghetti strap of her little black dress, calling attention to her cleavage.

I shift in my seat, trying to alleviate the sudden pressure I’m experiencing below my belt. “I mean, I pay my taxes on time and I haven’t murdered anyone, but let’s not get carried away.”

She laughs, amusement dancing in her honey-colored eyes. “You are. I can tell.”

I don’t disagree with her. Sure, I’d like to think I’m a decent human being, but let’s be real. Being a good guy doesn’t get you very far.

Exhibit A is the current state of my life. Single as fuck and horny—which isn’t exactly a winning combination, even though I’ve brought it on myself. Being celibate is a choice, but that doesn’t make it any easier. And when you throw in my fears about getting canned from the team, let’s just say I’m not exactly a barrel of laughs tonight.

Aubree makes a pensive sound and watches me over the rim of her glass like I’m a puzzle she wants to solve.

My self-imposed abstinence isn’t usually a problem, and while I’m not picky, I am selective. And the gorgeous girl beside me makes me feel a little unsteady. Like she’s capable of pushing past all my inner defenses without even trying.

Am I out of my element? Yes. Does that only make me want to push harder, strive for more, and take more chances? Bingo.

When Aubree lets out a lengthy sigh, I glance at her. “Everything okay over there?”

I expect her to say something mundane is bothering her—like maybe those insanely high heels she’s wearing—but it seems Aubree is full of surprises.

“Ugh . . . where to start.” She fiddles with her straw again. “Let’s see. I’m thirty and single, which is basically like the kiss of death.” She meets my eyes quickly before deciding that’s too intimate and scans the dance floor again. “All the good guys my age are already spoken for.”

She’s never opened up to me like this before, but something inside me appreciates her vulnerability. I turn to face her and meet her eyes. “You’re a ten, so you could have any guy you want. Your dancing skills are questionable, but still.”

“You’re an ass.” She rolls her eyes, but the tint on her cheeks at hearing me call her a ten is evident.

“Not denying that.”

She smirks and stirs the ice cubes in her drink with the straw.

“Cheers to being single.” I raise my glass to hers, and Aubree clinks her near-empty cocktail to mine. “Should we order another round?”

“God, yes. Immediately.”

Her timing is perfect, because our cocktail waitress has seemingly appeared out of nowhere, and we quickly place an order for another round of drinks.

It’s over our third cocktail that Aubree blurts, “So, who here is your type?” She sweeps her arm around the bar. “I’ll help you pick someone out.”

My sip of tequila goes down the wrong pipe, and I cough to clear my throat.

Is that what Aubree plans on doing tonight? Picking out someone tall, dark, and temporary to provide some stress relief? More importantly, why does the idea of that bother the hell out of me?

“I don’t have a type,” I finally manage to say, my throat tight.

Aubree scoffs. “Everyone has a type.”

“Are we seriously doing this?” My tone hints at annoyance, but in truth, I’m anything but. Sitting here talking and laughing with her is the most fun I’ve had tonight. To be honest, it’s the most fun I’ve had in a long time.

“What about her?” Ignoring my question, she nods toward a blonde swaying her hips on the edge of the dance floor. She’s dressed in a barely there halter top and a tiny black leather skirt.

Frowning, I shake my head. “No.”

Aubree turns and glares at me. “What’s wrong with her?”

It’s strange how expressive she is. I study her for longer than I should, unable to tear my gaze away. But rather than answer her question, I plead the fifth with a shrug and take another long gulp to drain the rest of my glass.

“So, are you going to tell me your type, or what?” Her eyes fix on mine and stay there for what feels like too long.

I don’t hate it.

“Fine. I prefer brunettes.”

She smiles triumphantly. “There. Was that so hard?”

Trust me, I’m halfway there, sweetheart.

Quizzing me while she sips her beverage, Aubree gets me to admit that I like petite brunettes who can hold a conversation and are feisty.

She quirks one eyebrow in my direction, and I’m suddenly certain that she’s just realized I’m describing her. Thankfully, she doesn’t call me on it. She just continues tapping her finger against her chin, scanning the bar for prospects like an athletic scout does at a training camp.

“There’s got to be more than that,” she says, challenging me. “Breast man? A nice heinie? What’s your thing?”

“My thing?” I can’t hide the humor in my voice. “First off, don’t use the word heinie ever again.”

“But—” she says.

God, I love that she’s about to vehemently defend even this.

I hold up one hand, stopping her. “Promise me. Never again.”

Aubree makes a low sound of agreement, and I feel a sudden ache in my balls. “Just answer the question, lover boy.”

“Tits are nice,” I say.

Aubree laughs, the sound deep and throaty, and any regrets I had about muttering that inarticulate phrase vanish. I’d do it all again just for a shot at hearing that laugh.

“But a nice curvy ass is pretty great too. I’m a guy, so I wouldn’t deny either.”

“Truer words,” she says with a chuckle.

I’m about to turn the question around on her, ask about her type, but the words stick in my throat. I don’t want to hear her describe any man here who isn’t me. My ego isn’t secure enough for that tonight. Sad but true.

Aubree’s got perfect tits and a nice curvy heinie—God, that word really is atrocious—and I can’t not make a play for her. At this point, what do I have to lose?

“You want to get out of here?” I ask, adjusting my watch, feigning a casual posture.

Her lips twitch with a smile. “And go where?”

I shrug, trying to play it cool, but my heart is hammering. “Anywhere. Someplace we can talk.”

She considers this, weighing my offer as those expressive amber eyes flash on mine again. “Talking is good.”

So is kissing.

“Sure,” she says at last.

I settle our tab and rise to my feet, grateful that the night is taking an unexpected turn.

Aubree:

The rays of sunlight shining through the hotel curtains feel like a flashlight shining directly in my eyeballs. No, not a flashlight. Laser beams. A hundred laser beams, all pointed directly into my corneas.

Hell hath no fury like a hangover when you’re thirty years old.

With an exhausted groan, I roll to the edge of the bed, feeling around the side table for my phone, which kindly informs me that it’s almost eleven in the morning. Jeez. If it were any other Saturday, I’d already be home from yoga and hopping in the shower by now.

But I’m not at home in Seattle, I’m in Las Vegas, and at the moment, just the thought of yoga makes my stomach turn. The only downward dog I’ll be doing today will be directly over the toilet. That is, if I can force myself out of bed.

Last night, I was throwing back vodka sodas like I was still twenty-one, back when hangovers were a mythical thing that only happened to real adults who just couldn’t keep up.

Let the record show that I, Aubree Derrick, can’t keep up. My head is pounding, and there’s a churning in my stomach that I’m not even sure throwing up would fix. So, yeah, those real adults? I guess I’m officially one of them.

Since I’m not particularly excited about the idea of leaving this bed, I open my texts, looking for clues as to what exactly went down last night. By some miracle, I find no evidence of drunk texting any exes. Or if I did, my drunk self had the wherewithal to delete the evidence so Sober Me didn’t have to be embarrassed. Thank you, Drunk Self, for being a true friend.

But I’m not in the clear yet. I still need to check my camera roll.

I tap the icon with my thumb, holding my breath as I swipe through photos of me and the girls, Owen and Becca posing at dinner, and a goofy selfie Elise must have snapped when I wasn’t paying attention. I’ll be sure to save that as ammo for a future birthday post for her. But that’s it.

A slow, relieved breath leaves my lungs. Thank the good Lord above, because other than the hangover from hell, I actually got away scot-free.

Until I hear the rustling of sheets coming from the other side of the bed.

Oh no. I spoke too soon.

Slowly sucking in a deep breath, I count down from ten, promising myself that by the time I reach one, I’ll have worked up enough courage to face whoever I brought back to my hotel room last night.

Three.

Two.

Two and a half.

Two and a quarter.

One.

At first, I don’t recognize the mess of dark hair and tanned skin lying next to me. My bedmate is facing away from me, giving me a delicious view of his muscular back. Faint red lines run down the sculpted muscles between his shoulders, definitely the work of my fingernails.

Wait a second. I know that back. It’s one I’m used to seeing draped in a jersey.

Number 94, a.k.a. Landon freaking Covington, the Ice Hawks rookie, is asleep in my bed. Shirtless. And although the sheets are pulled above his trim waist, the pile of clothes on the floor is a pretty good indication that he’s naked below the waist too.

It doesn’t take a detective to tell you what that means. Shit got real last night. My heart takes off like a race car, thumping so loudly that I’m sure it’s going to wake him up.

Okay, Aubree. Deep breaths. It’s a hookup. People do this all the time. It’s no biggie.

And then I catch a glimpse of my left hand. Staring back at me is a beautiful halo-cut ring with a huge diamond that is most definitely a biggie. Literally and figuratively.

My gaze pings between my left hand and the sexy man sleeping next to me, trying to fill in the gaps in my memory. Slowly, it starts coming back to me—the feel of his strong arms wrapped around me, him whispering something in my ear that made me laugh like a hyena. Us stumbling down the Vegas strip together, hand in hand.

But after that, things start to get a little foggy between midnight and now, when there’s a naked man in my bed and an enormous diamond ring on my left hand. You do the math.

I peel back the covers and tiptoe as softly as humanly possible to grab a sleep shirt from my suitcase. I don’t need Landon waking up to the sight of me wearing only a thong, scouring the room for proof that we used a condom last night.

But that’s exactly what I do.

I check the trash cans for a torn silver wrapper, a mysterious bundle of toilet paper, anything to give me peace of mind that we used protection last night. But no. The only remnants of our drunken evening together are our clothes, lying in heaps on the floor, and a certificate from Happily Ever After Chapel that I spot on the dresser.

With quivering fingers, I hold it up, scanning the fine print for something that says this is just a souvenir we picked up. Instead, I find the scrawled signatures of our witnesses and the cold hard truth. Landon Covington and Aubree Derrick are certifiably joined in wedlock.

Panic rises, tightening my throat and squeezing my chest until I can hardly breathe. It’s like my lungs can’t expand all the way, and my heart is beating so fast, I think it might explode.

I’m not sure if the sound I make qualifies as a shout, a sob, or somewhere in between, but whatever it is, it wakes Landon up. He jolts upright in bed, fumbling for the sheet to keep his lower half covered.

“Holy shit, Bree. Are you okay?”

My mouth opens to reply, but no words come out. Just shaky breaths and a throaty moaning sound as I drop the marriage certificate, letting it float to the carpet. I can feel my cheeks go pale as the blood rushes out of my face, and I crumple onto the edge of the bed, resting my head in my hands. Shallow, uneven breaths push past my lips, and I feel so light-headed, I could faint.

“Fuck.” The bed shifts as Landon scrambles out of it, tugs on some article of clothing from the floor—pants, I think—and rushes to my side. “You’re okay, Aubree. Take a breath.”

He strokes my back until I’m brave enough to pull my face from my hands and look him in the eye, which only gets my heart racing again.

“You’re doing great. Can you breathe with me?” He inhales through his nose, urging me to do the same, then releases the air slowly through pursed lips.

As I come down from my panic, he keeps his arms tight around me like a security blanket, holding me flush against his chest until my heart rate slows to match his. A few minutes of deep breathing later, I’m in enough of a normal state to pose the question demanding to be asked.

“Did we . . .” I fumble for the right words, gesturing to the sparkling rock on my finger. “Is this real? Did we get married?”

He nods slowly, pushing a strand of hair out of my eyes and tucking it behind my ear. “Yes, to both. The ring is real and, according to that piece of paper you were holding, the marriage is too.”

“I . . . I don’t remember any of it,” I whisper, dropping my gaze to my feet.

“Really? I didn’t know you were that drunk. You seemed pretty with it last night.”

“Well, I wasn’t,” I mumble. “If I were with it, I would’ve suggested we use a condom.”

Landon flinches. “Hold on. What?”

I repeat myself, drawing out the words. “A condom. We should have used one.”

But this time, instead of a look of confusion, he looks back at me with a smirk. “You really don’t remember anything, do you?”

“No!” I huff, folding my arms over my chest. “Can you please clue me in?”

“We didn’t have sex,” he says, his voice equal parts blunt and soothing.

My brow crinkles as I try to read his expression for signs of sarcasm. “Are . . . are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t lie about that.”

“But what about the marks on your back?” When Landon’s face twists in confusion, I gesture toward the mirror. “See for yourself.”

He pushes off the bed and stalks toward the mirror, his eyebrows lifting as he gets a look at his back, sizing up the marks running from his shoulder blades to the small of his back. “I guess you got a little rough when we were making out.”

Rough? Me?

Maybe I was really into it?

Slowly, the fog covering my memory starts to lift . . .

• • •

We were outside the door to my room, laughing and kissing while I dug through my purse for my room key. Landon shushed me playfully, pressing kiss after kiss into my neck until I finally got the door open, making a big fuss of hanging the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle.

The second it clicked closed behind us, our mouths collided, his tongue greedily exploring mine as my hand cupped the bulge growing behind his zipper. He moaned into my mouth, a deep, lustful sound that triggered something primal inside me that I couldn’t quite explain. His hands moved up my thighs, slipping under my dress to touch the front of my panties, and he groaned when he felt the damp fabric. I leaned into his touch, my knees parting to accommodate his fingers.

“C’mon, Mrs. Covington,” he growled into my ear. “Let’s take this to bed.”

And we did, falling into the center of the huge king-size bed together.

Fumbling with the buttons on his dress shirt, Landon finally got it off. His chest was broad and smooth with wide pecs, and I stroked the firm muscles, unable to stop touching him. When I reached his abs—dear God, they were amazing—I made a happy sound, and Landon chuckled.

Panting, I said, “God bless hockey players.”

“Amen.” His lips moved against my throat.

My dress was rucked up around my waist, and his eyes darkened with hunger as he looked at the scrap of black lace between my legs.

“Damn, you’re sexy,” he murmured, trailing one large palm over my hip, sending little sparks of heat racing down my spine.

While he leaned closer, kissing my neck, I arched into him and trailed my hand down his back, enjoying the feel of warm, sculpted muscle beneath my fingertips.

With one more sweet kiss, he pulled back so he was kneeling between my parted thighs. I worked my dress off over my head, which was no small feat. Landon groaned at the sight of me, his gaze locked on my bare breasts.

“Jesus, Aubree.” His voice was little more than a harsh pant.

He tested the weight of my breast in his hand, his thumb skating across my nipple, and I sucked in a shaky breath.

“I really like these,” he murmured.

“Yeah?” I could hardly get the word out, I was breathing so hard.

“So much.”

He watched me with a dark, hooded stare, seeming unsure, like he was hesitating. But I knew he wanted me, as evidenced by the enormous erection tenting the front of his dress pants.

I worked my hand under his waistband and ran my palm along his impressive length. Wow. There’s a lot of him. His eyes sank closed and his mouth dropped open as he moved his hips, seeking more friction against my palm. Holy hell, that’s hot.

His face was flushed, and when he opened his eyes, they were bluer than I’d ever seen them.

He expelled a breath, and his pelvis lifted.

“Holy fucking—” He didn’t finish, just groaned loudly as my palm wrapped around him.

• • •

And then the memory fades.

I blink at the softer, sleepier-looking version of Landon sitting on the bed beside me. His hair is a mess. It’s kind of adorable, if I were in a state to notice such things, anyway.

“I sort of remember that,” I say, blinking the memory away as I reemerge into reality. “But I could use some clearing up on what happened after we made it to the bed.”

“Well, we kissed,” he says, his voice steady but measured.

“I remember the kissing.”

He nods. “And you took off your dress.”

I draw in a breath, feeling my face turn warm at the memory of shoving my hand in the front of his underwear. “And then?”

“And then?” His thumb touches his bottom lip. “Then you, um, fell asleep. So I covered you up and placed a glass of water on the nightstand for you.”

Landon’s expression is calm, his tone matter-of-fact. I have no idea why he’s not freaking the heck out right now like I am.

My gaze wanders to the full glass of water still on the nightstand. “You’re shockingly casual about this whole thing, you know that?” I hurl the accusation at him, my frustration rising.

He shrugs. When he runs a hand along the stubble at his jaw, I notice something else.

“Why don’t you have a ring?”

He looks down at his naked left hand, his brows pushed together as though he’s working to recall the hazy details. “When I bought your ring, we looked at some for me too, but you said you’d get mine after your next payday.”

“Oh.” My stomach plummets. “Sorry about that.” Even my drunk self knew that my nonprofit salary couldn’t accommodate an unplanned wedding ring. And definitely not on the same paycheck that paid for this Vegas trip.

“Don’t be sorry. I offered to pay for both rings, but you insisted. It was kinda . . . sweet.”

I do my best to smile, but it comes off more as a grimace.

What’s so sweet about a drunken Vegas marriage you can hardly remember? And why is he so cavalier about this whole thing?

Before I can formulate a question, the sound of both of our phones buzzing in unison drags me away. It’s a group text to both of us from Becca.

Good morning, lovebirds! Come down to breakfast in the lobby! We’ve got two seats calling your name. <3

“I guess we should get ready.” I sigh, tossing my phone onto the duvet with a huff. “We’re wanted at the breakfast table.”

Landon tugs on last night’s clothes to make the trip down the hall to his own room.

Meanwhile, I barely make it through my shower routine without throwing up. Between the nausea, the headache, and the life-altering decisions I made last night, it looks like vodka and I won’t be seeing each other for quite some time.

Landon must take his sweet time getting ready, because even with the time it takes for me to dry my hair and put on half a face of makeup to conceal the dark circles under my eyes, we still arrive at the elevator at the same time. Great. Looks like the newlyweds will be walking into breakfast together.

“You look nice,” he says, nodding toward my navy-blue T-shirt dress.

“No need to flatter me,” I remind him, biting my cheek to maintain my composure. “We’re already married, remember?”

Landon’s expression is unreadable, except for the slight tic in his jaw. I wish I knew how to read him better, because I have no idea what he’s thinking.

When the elevator doors open on the ground level, it doesn’t take long for us to find our friends. Mostly because the second they spot us, the whole table starts whooping and whistling about the newlyweds. A drop of nervous sweat slides down my spine. This is going to be worse than I thought.

Justin, the hockey team’s star center, who’s normally pretty reserved, is the first to jump to his feet, leading a dramatic slow clap as we walk up to the table. “Look who decided to show up. The mister and missus!”

I slide into a seat next to my friend Bailey, hiding my red cheeks with a menu, but Landon doesn’t make it that far. Teddy, one of the team veterans, slaps him on the back, and Owen, the team’s fun-loving goalie, pulls him into a side hug that quickly becomes a headlock.

“Covey’s officially off the market, ladies!” Owen says with a laugh.

Once he breaks free, Landon chooses the seat directly across from me and pours two glasses of water from the pitcher on the table, then slides the first one to me. I accept it with trembling fingers.

“So, how does it feel to wake up a married man, Lovey?” Elise asks, a wicked glimmer in her eye.

“It feels like I’m hung over as fuck.” Landon snickers, and the whole table breaks into laughter.

Well, the whole table except for me. I must have steam coming out of my ears or something, because after taking a bit more teasing from the guys, Landon leans across the table, his brilliant blue eyes brimming with concern.

“Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not fucking okay,” I whisper back. “Why would I be even a little okay with this?”

“Oooh,” Owen hollers from across the table. “Are the newlyweds having their first lovers’ quarrel already?”

My throat constricts. Shit. I need to get some air before I start crying in front of all my friends.

“Excuse me,” I whisper, swallowing the lump in my throat as I push back from the table. I’ll pick up fast food or order room service later or something. But I can’t sit and take any more jokes about the dumbest mistake of my life. Especially not while I’m feeling like total shit.

“Hey, hey, wait up,” a voice calls from behind me, and before I can make it out the revolving door, Landon catches me by the arm, his long, calloused fingers curling around my wrist. “What’s wrong?”

I spin to face him. His eyes are now a dangerous shade of blue. A shocking, brilliant blue that makes me feel a little weak as I pull a breath into my lungs.

“I’m glad your teammates are so amused by our situation,” I manage to say through gritted teeth. “Because I sure as hell am not.”

“Come on, Aubree. They’re just joking around.” He reaches for my hand again, but I pull it out of his reach.

“It’s not a joke. It’s my life. And once I have a functioning, non-alcohol-poisoned brain again, I’ll be getting legal advice from Sara, and we’re going to look into how to get this annulled.”

Landon’s eyes meet mine, his gaze determined. “Just take a breath.”

I do, releasing it slowly as my heart pounds. “Last night was a mistake,” I whisper, looking down at my sandals.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” He swallows the words.

When I look up again, he’s staring directly at me, his face expressionless.

I breathe out a shaky breath. He can’t be serious. “Okay, I thought I was the one with a nonfunctioning brain. You saw that certificate, right? That was a real ceremony. We’re legally husband and wife right now.”

“I know we are,” he says, his voice strained. “Which is why I’m taking this seriously.”

My mouth falls open and I blink at him, dumbfounded, waiting for him to laugh and tell me he’s joking. Or, better yet, that this whole thing is one big prank, that the ring and the certificate are fake, and this is some elaborate joke that he and the rest of the group concocted.

But when he stares back at me, the look of determination in his eyes sends a shiver trampling down my spine. All I can do is laugh in disbelief. It was either laugh, or sob loudly.

“Landon, if you’re suggesting that we stay married . . .” I pause, trying not to scoff at the thought while giving him another second to say gotcha. But he doesn’t. “Well, then you’re even more immature than I thought.”

His face falls for a second, then steels into a stern expression, his angular jaw ticking in a way I can’t quite read. “We’ll talk about it later. This weekend isn’t about us; it’s about Owen and Becca.”

I make an aggravated sound. “Then why is everyone talking about us instead of Becca and Owen?”

Since when is there an us?

He closes his eyes briefly, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows whatever emotion he’s choosing not to show. “I’ll handle it. Just come back to the table. You’ll be in a better mood once you have some coffee.”

My eyes narrow at him, but he doesn’t back down.

“And possibly some eggs,” he adds, and I straighten my shoulders.

“I don’t like eggs.” When he frowns at me, I say, “Make it pancakes, and you have a deal.”

“Done and done. Pancakes on me.”

I follow him back into the restaurant like a runaway puppy returning home with its tail between its legs.

“Aw, did we kiss and make up?” Becca coos, riling the table up again.

“Enough.” Landon’s barked order, coupled with his dagger-sharp look, quiets everyone down, at least long enough for us to place our orders.

After that, every time I look up, Landon is staring at me. His scrutiny makes my stomach tighten in a way I haven’t felt before.

When our food arrives, the conversation dies down as people dig in. Once we start talking again, the subject switches to Becca and Owen’s honeymoon in Greece.

“Everyone always raves about Mykonos, but Santorini is really more our style,” Becca says, squeezing her fiancé’s hand as he chomps down on a piece of bacon. “Right, O?”

Owen shrugs. “As long as I have my angel by my side, I don’t care where we go. We could go to freaking Cleveland, for all I care.”

“We are not going to Cleveland,” Becca says sternly, giving him a pointed look.

Owen just chuckles and steals a piece of bacon from Becca’s plate while she smiles at him like he hung the moon.

I snicker along with the rest of the table, and Owen takes my smile as a free pass to sneak back into dangerous territory. A devilish look comes over his face as he folds his hands on the table, faking the most serious expression he can manage.

“So, Covey and Aubree. Where are you two going for your honeymoon?”

Before I can even process my anger, Landon has the situation under control. “Guys, can we let my wife eat her pancakes without any more comments, please?”

The table goes quiet again. Although it’s a little awkward, I can’t say my throbbing headache and I really mind the silence.

What I do mind is the fact that Landon just called me his wife. But I’ll deal with that later. With a hangover like this, you take your wins where you can get them.