Page 17 of Notorious

How he derailed my plans entirely.

Shoot. Mama.

“I have no idea what the hell happened,” Kurt whispers. He winces, his hand going to his head. “Sorry, I’m pretty damn hungover.” He gets up, grabbing the sheet he took with him when he fell out of bed and wrapping it around his waist. It’s fine with me if he wants to preserve his modesty, but I have no problems with nudity. Obviously.

Precious man. He’s so cute. No wonder I wanted to keep him, if even for one night.

Guess I’m taking the “till death do us part” vow literally.

Kurt finds his tuxedo pants by the front door. After a moment’s searching, he comes up with a pair of black boxer briefs and slips them on. I crawl out of bed, not bothering to cover up—although my morning wood’s wishing us all a good day—so I can rustle up my own clothes.

I’ve got a feeling Kurt’s fixed an eye—or both—on me but doesn’t want to admit it. A small flame of pride flickers through me. Even though I make my living based on my looks and my body, I still like the validation.

Scratching his belly and yawning, Kurt pads over to the cluttered nightstand. His behind looks real pretty in his tight boxer briefs, and I stifle a groan. He doesn’t need to know I’m perving on him.

I shuffle to my suitcase and find a pair of cutoff gray sweats under my award. I slip them on. I’ll spare him from being confronted with my erection, which is the size of a spruce. My body can’t help its attraction to him.

Truthfully, I’m happy my body’s attracted to anyone. It’s been pretty much broken since The Incident.

He turns to me. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just feeling last night.” While I have a headache from all the booze, I’m plenty awake now. I crack open a bottle of water and down it.

That’s better.

Kurt tilts his head and fishes an official-looking piece of paper out from under my cell phone and wallet. He swallows hard and then glances at me. His morning stubble is flat-out gorgeous, and the hard angle of his jaw is so sexy, it could start bar fights. Possibly turf wars.

I join him and peer over his shoulder at the document, which says “CERTIFICATE OF MARRIAGE, CLARK COUNTY, NEVADA. This is to certify that John Huckleberry Haskell and Kurt Arden Delmont were united in marriage …”

It looks pretty darn official.

“Shoot. We’re really married?” I say in wonder, touching the blue signatures on the paper.

Kurt inhales sharply and turns toward me. His bare chest is broad, although not as broad as mine. He has soft-looking skin that’s asking to be kissed and caressed. Heat radiates from him, and I’m attracted to it like a lizard to a sun-warmed rock. But I can keep my hands to myself.

Especially when my husband is a virtual stranger and his mind is very obviously racing. “Yeah. I think so. Shit. What happened?”

“I think I got very drunk,” I say, rubbing the back of my head.

He snorts, then flinches. “Yeah. Me, too.” He leans against the table while I stare at the paper some more.

Other parts of the night come back to me in short bursts. The convention. My award. All the faces glaring at me. Going to the bar to drink away my sorrows before I?—

“Okay, I’m sure there’s a way to get it annulled.” Kurt taps the paper with a slim finger and interrupts my thoughts.

For some reason, his suggestion annoys me. It’s irrational—after all, we don’t know each other—but a rejection’s a rejection.

I guess it don’t matter none, though, seeing as how this is it for me. I can sign whatever he needs me to sign.

Except… I want him. My hands reach for him without my volition, but I pull them back.

“You want to do that?” I ask.

“Definitely. We can’t stay married. I’ve got an election to win. I’ve thrown my hat in the ring for a Senate seat. The primary is in March, and I can’t be married to a …”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but I get the gist of it. He can’t be married to a porn star. That’d be bad for his image.

Kurt catches my pinched expression. “Oh my god, I’m sorry. That came out totally wrong, and it made me sound like a jerk. I didn’t mean it like?—”

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