Page 10 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

Alex shakes his head. “Like I said. Jerry Springer.”

My phone chooses that moment to explode with notifications.

Lily and Kat. Asking where I am. Demanding it, really.

“No one touch anything. Say anything. Post anything.” I point a finger at the small crowd of men around me, grabbing one of the Elvis robes. “This…” I motion, “never leaves this room. Understood?”

Wide-eyed, the men all nod, murmuring low.

“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need five minutes to puke out my guts.”

"Take ten," Connor calls after me. "I need to murder my friend anyway."

I slam the bathroom door, sliding down it to sit on the floor. Through the wood, I hear Alex's voice:

"Good luck with that, Romeo. But first... maybe explain how exactly you ended up married to my cousin's ex while I was supposedly keeping you out of trouble?"

I press my forehead to my knees, trying to breathe through the panic.

My phone buzzes again. And again. And...

I turn it off, wondering if it's possible to die from embarrassment or if I'll have to settle for just never leaving this bathroom again.

A soft knock makes me jump.

"Hey." Connor's voice is gentle through the door. “They’re gone. Gold suit. Alex. Both of them. And I found pants. And coffee. Though I think we might need something stronger."

I look down at my glitter-covered dress, then at the Elvis robe in my hands. At the poker chip ring that somehow feels both ridiculous and right on my finger.

"Ariana?"

"Yeah?"

"I know this is... a lot. But maybe we could freak out together? Over breakfast? I make really good panic attack pancakes."

I glare at the door. “Panic attack pancakes?"

"Special recipe. Lots of chocolate chips. Zero judgment about accidental Vegas marriages."

I stand, catching sight of myself in the mirror. My makeup's smeared, my hair's a disaster, and I'm pretty sure there's a hickey peeking out from under my dress strap.

How much worse can things get?

"Okay," I call back. "But I'm wearing the Elvis robe."

His laugh is warm even through the door. "Deal. I'll take the matching one. We can be tacky together."

And really, what's one more terrible decision between accidentally married strangers?

4

THE MORNING AFTER... AGAIN

CONNOR

Turns out "panic attack pancakes" are harder to make when you're not in your own kitchen.

"Sir," the very patient hotel chef says for the third time, "I assure you we can handle breakfast."

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