Page 66 of Fake Shot

Chapter Twenty-Six

JULES

6 Years Ago

Las Vegas, NV

Is this what being drunk feels like? Exhilarating and terrifying and freeing, all at the same time?

Brock reaches across his body and intertwines the fingers of his left hand with mine, while his right arm circles my waist, anchoring me to his hip as we navigate through the small tables at the outdoor French bistro. I don’t think I’m swaying, exactly, but everything feels fuzzy and lovely, and it’s certainly easier to walk in a straight line when he’s helping me.

“Oh my God,” I gasp as I glance up at the lights of the Eiffel Tower sparkling above us. “We’re in Paris!” I’ve never left the country before, and I’m shocked and delighted that I’m in France and don’t even remember the trip here.

The smacking sound he makes when his lips land on mycheek is adorable. He can’t seem to keep his mouth off me, which is fine by me, because his kisses are a million times better than the drunk frat boys who are always trying to steal kisses at the MIT parties I’ve been to this year.

“We’re outside the Paris Hotel, not actuallyinParis.” He says it with the same voice you’d use to tell a child they’re silly, and that has me in a fit of giggles.

I don’t know why everything is so funny, but I’m happy and I’m enjoying this feeling. It’s sort of a new one for me. Brock makes me happy. Well, Brock and whiskey sours and delicious French meals at an outdoor cafe under the Eiffel Tower, and some after-dinner drink with a name that had something to do with Paris and burning. Whatever it was, it was strong but delicious and went down easy—so easy that Brock had two.

“I’m pretty sure this actuallyisParis,” I say, glancing from the outdoor bistro tables of the French cafe we’re walking through and back up to the Eiffel Tower.

“Sure thing,” he says and presses his lips to my temple as his fingers snake a figure-eight pattern over my hip bone.

His touch has my skin on fire, but, like, if fire was pleasant. It makes me glow. I’ve never felt like this before. Is this what I’ve been missing out on? Why was I holding out for Colt when there are so many other attractive guys out there?

Once we’re out of the cafe, he points out the Bellagio’s fountains across the street. They’re in the middle of their spectacular show, so we head over to watch them. Standing there with my back pressed up against his chest and his arms wrapped around me, holding me tight, with the lights and the fountains and the music all coordinated, he leans hishead down and says, “How about we go back to my room after this?”

My laugh is light and flirtatious, the alcohol pumping through my veins has me feeling warm and tingly. “Brock,” I say, nervousness creeping up on me. “I’m not sleeping with you tonight.”

I’ve never even done anything more than kiss a guy, and the thought that he expects more than that from me has me so nervous I could throw up.

“I wasn’t planning on getting much sleep.” His thumb runs back and forth over my wrist, and it’s sending sparks of desire through me. He might not be the man I’d envisioned losing my virginity to, but that man is currently fucking some random woman he’ll never see again in a Vegas hotel room.This man, however, has been nothing but sweet and attentive and wonderful to me all night.

I giggle as his lips trace a path up my neck and consider what it would be like to actually give myself over to him. Everything he’s doing—the way he touches me, the way his lips feel on my body—is amazing. Now, though, I’m suddenly feeling the effects of that after-dinner drink. The fountains in front of us look like a big moving blob of water, and the notes of the music blend together in a way that feels overwhelming.

I want to talk to Audrey. I want to ask her what I should do here. But knowing that she had a one-night stand last summer that resulted in pregnancy and her facing single motherhood when the baby is born, I already know what she’d say. I’m on the pill, though, and I can make sure he wears a condom too. Double protection. Still, accidents happen, and I don’t want to be a single mom. The only wayto avoid that, though, is to wait until you’re married to have sex.

Yes! That’s it,my brain screams.Tell him you can’t have sex until you’re married.

When I say that, his chest shakes with a low chuckle. “Okay, let’s get married, then. Wearein Vegas, after all.”

“I didn’t come to Vegas to get married.” I’m proud of myself for remembering this fact right now when everything is starting to feel fuzzy.

“Neither did I,” he says, then pulls my earlobe between his teeth. “But we’d be good together, don’t you think?” He takes one of his arms that was around my waist and moves it up, sliding his hand between his suit jacket that I’m wearing and my dress so that he can cup my breast in his hand. His thumb toys with my nipple in a way that has me instantly crossing my legs to relieve some of the pressure building there.

Right now I want to have sex with him. But I don’t want to be a single mom, either.Marriage is a good solution, my brain tells me, and in my drunken state, I don’t even think to question it.

“Okay,” I sigh, leaning the back of my head against his shoulder. “Let’s get married, then.”

He spins me around to face him and smacks a big, wet kiss on my lips. “Pretty sure I’m the luckiest guy in Vegas.”

“Because you’re going to hit the jackpot tonight?” In my mind, this is the funniest thing I’ve ever said, and I almost collapse into another fit of giggles.

He’s laughing right along with me, pulling me into his arms. “Exactly.” Then he flags down a taxi, and as we pile in, he asks, “Where’s the closest place to get married?”

“You have a marriage license already?” the guy asks.

Brock and I both let out big, drunk sighs. “Nope.”

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