Page 40 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

I sit up with determination, swiping to unlock my phone. Distraction. That’s what I need. Work. Crisis management. Something to shove last night into a mental vault, bury it under a thousand other PR emergencies, and pretend my body doesnot react to Connor Reeves in any way beyond professional irritation.

Except the first thing on my screen isn’t a work emergency.

It’s an incognito browser tab from my 3 a.m. spiral:

"How long do you have to be married to qualify for an annulment?"

I groan again. Because of course, in my infinite wisdom, I hadn’t just accidentally made out with Connor—I had also accidentally married him in Vegas.

My forehead finds the desk again.

Just as someone knocks on my office door.

I groan into the oak surface. “Come in!”

The door swings open, and I glance up to discover a courier stepping inside carrying yet another suspiciously Elvis-themed package.

He asks me to sign for it, and I instantly lose it.

"No," I tell the uniformed man, rushing to my feet, "I don't want the commemorative 'Love Me Tender' breakfast set."

Because if there’s one thing I really don’t need right now, it’s another reminder that I technically still have a husband.

Or worse—another reminder that I kind of, sort of, maybe enjoyed kissing him.

"But it comes with matching His and Hers coffee mugs!" He holds up two sequined monstrosities. "And a waffle iron that makes heart-shaped?—"

"Absolutely not." I try to close my office door, but he wedges his foot in.

"The chapel really thinks you and Mr. Reeves would appreciate?—"

"The chapel needs to stop sending gifts to my office." I eye the growing pile of Elvis memorabilia in the corner. "And maybe consider a less aggressive marketing strategy."

"But the reality show producers?—"

"No reality show!"

My phone buzzes:

SENATOR THOMPSON'S WIFE: Need crisis management ASAP. More yacht photos surfacing. Drake PR being useless.

Great. Because that's exactly what I need right now. More yacht drama.

But on the plus side…

For every client that Will loses at his firm, I get another potential client stolen for my own. That is, if I ever decide to open one in the first place.

A decision I haven’t made yet. I sigh.

"Fine." I snatch the coffee mugs. "But this is the last delivery, understand? No more singing telegrams, no more sequined tablecloths, and definitely no more?—"

"SURPRISE!"

I whirl to find three Elvis impersonators in my doorway, complete with jumpsuits and pompadours.

"Oh no."

"Oh yes!" Middle Elvis strikes a pose. "We're here to serenade the happy couple with a medley of?—"

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