We skipped right over the whole fiancée thing and went straight from girlfriend to wife.
At least, I think that’s what happened. I woke up after my brother’s Vegas wedding reception with my luscious girlfriend in bed with me. We’re both wearing wedding rings.
So is her coworker, Josh.
And our Vegas chauffeur, Geordi.
Who the hell am I married to?
Unraveling this mystery will be as difficult as figuring out why Amanda and I are having panic attacks over the thought of being husband and wife.
Or, whoever we’re actually married to.
It’s true that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, with one exception:
If she’s my wife, we’ll make it work.
If she’s not?
I’ll make it happen.
Get the 9th book in Julia Kent’s New York Times bestselling romantic comedy series as Andrew and Amanda sort out their wild Vegas night…and the rest of their lives.
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I finish my lukewarm coffee. Weed through more than a hundred email messages that Gina already triaged. These are the truly urgent ones. I pare them down to eleven that are impossible to solve in my first full day back.
By the time I’m in my spin clothes, my trainer, Vince, has arrived. He’s carrying a glass bottle filled with limp, brown seaweed and a foil packet.
“Here’s your kombucha,” he announces, handing me the seaweed.
“I’m not drinking that shit, Vince.”
“It’s fermented! It’s good for your gut.”
“Beer’s fermented, too.”
He shoves the foil pouch in my hand. Vince has long hair, thick and braided, with a clean-shaven, wide face and a nearly hairless body. In spite of his enormous size, he cycles competitively and does private training for a few CEOs in the area.
He’s also merciless.
Which is why I hired him.
“What’s this? Kelp botanicals in a druid-tear solution?”
“Isn’t that illegal everywhere except Colorado and Washington?”
“It’s medium-chain fatty acids, not marijuana.” Vince begins reciting all the health benefits. It’s easier to eat it than to argue. I rip open the top of the packet and suck it down.
“Ugh.” It tastes like you think. I just drank a quarter-cup of oil.
“If I vomit in the middle of my sprint, it’s on you.”
“Nope. My reflexes are better than yours. You won’t get any on me.”
I snort. He shoves me to the twin spin bikes in the workout room attached to my office. “Put up or shut up.”
I climb on my bike and wait for the music. The same song opens all of our 60-minute spin sessions for warm-up.
Queen’s Fat-Bottomed Girls.
Vince doesn’t start the music, though. His eyes are narrowed to slits, and he’s staring at my midsection.
“The fuck, Andrew?” Unlike everyone else who works for me, Vince doesn’t call me Mr. or Sir.
“Something you want to share with the class?”
He yanks my left hand off the handlebars. “You got married?”
“You’re wearing a wedding ring for shits and giggles?”
“You gonna explain this to me?”
“I have to spin it out of you?”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Burn me to the ground, Vince.”
The music starts.
Five minutes into it and my legs are screaming.
Ten minutes into it and Vince is screaming.
Twenty minutes into it and I’m screaming.
Forty minutes later, the lambs are screaming.
With five minutes to go, Vince’s soundtrack shifts to a song I’ve never heard before.
“You changed the lineup?”
“Sure. Variety is the spice of life.”
“Don’t do that. Stick to the plan.”
“My plan, Andrew. You can’t make me do the same damn shit over and over.”
When I hired Vince, I told him exactly what I wanted. Technique, pacing, playlist, the whole bit. All he had to do was ride with me and hold me accountable.
“Fuck you,” he said that day. “I do what I want because I’m the best. Don’t like it? Don’t hire me.”
I hired him on the spot.
“Changing the music makes me lose my place,” I huff.
“Changing the music forces you to adapt. You’re too rigid.”
“Fuck off, Vince.”
“You only say that when I’m right.”
I don’t have the lung power to answer.
Five minutes later, I’m stretching. Vince is at the blender.
“Smoothie?” I ask, as I feel my pulse in my eyelashes.
“Bulletproof coffee with protein powder.”
“Coffee and whey?” I cringe. I uncringe. How did Vince make my face muscles ache like this? Damn. “Do I look like Little Miss Muffet with a latte?”
“I don’t trust someone whose primary diet source is rotten plankton.”
He just grunts, then shoves a pint glass filled with beige cream at me.
“Seriously, Vince, what’s in this?” It looks like a hot latte met an oil slick.
I do. It tastes like milk blended with coffee and snot. I gag on the first try.
“You’re like a chick giving her first blow job, Andrew.”
“Now I really want to put this in my mouth. You’re so inspirational.”
“You have too much energy left,” he declares. “Let’s lift.”
Verbal abuse is my second language. I’m fluent in it when talking to other guys.
“I’m not lifting. I’ve got a call with some investors in Turkey.”
“If you haven’t noticed, I run a Fortune 500 company.”
“And you’re wearing a wedding ring you won’t talk about.”
About the Author:
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge, and new adult books that push contemporary boundaries. From billionaires to BBWs to rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every book she writes, but unlike Trevor from Random Acts of Crazy, she has never kissed a chicken. She loves to hear from her readers by email at firstname.lastname@example.org
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