Page 5 of Spurred On

“You know what they say about a man's cowboy hat?” he asks and I shake my head. He leans in close to my ear, his hot breath on my neck makes me suck in a breath. “Wear the hat, ride the cowboy.”

Chapter 4

Ava

My eyes blink open from the light streaming in through the white curtains. The pounding in my head leaves me a little disoriented. Trying to clear the fog, I blink my eyes a few times, struggling to keep them open. My whole body feels like it was hit by a Mack Truck. I’m never doing a girl’s weekend again in my life. This right here is why I stay home. Nausea rolls through me and I fight it, breathing through my nose. It’s then that I realize there is a soft snore next to me.

Why is there a snore next to me?

My heart starts hammering away when I realize I am not alone. Sitting up in bed, I look around to see men’s clothes scattered on the floor along with multiple pairs of boots, one of which I recognize as mine.

Oh no, I'm in a hotel room, but it definitely is not mine. Pulling the blankets down, I realize the oversized white T-shirt I'm wearing isalsonot mine.

Oh my God. I cannot believe I had a one-night stand in Vegas. How freaking cliché!

My hand flies to my face as I cover my mouth. My fingers brush against my lips, and I get the briefest cooling sensation. Metal touching skin.

Oh my fucking God. Why does it feel like there is metal on my finger? Please, God, no.

I pull my left hand away from my face and inspect the silver band on my finger… Then, I inspect the man lying next to me. He lays face down in a mess of blankets, his broad, muscled back on full display, only his lower half hidden under the blanket.

Maybe this is a joke, and we didn’t actually get married. There has to be something in this room that can give me some sort of hint at what happened last night. I throw the blankets off and start looking on tabletops. Surely, they would need a marriage license even in Vegas. My hands nervously flutter through the room, flipping over the couch cushions, looking under the scattered clothing. The room is freaking huge, it must be some sort of suite. It has a whole formal sitting area with a minibar and a bed big enough to fit about five adults. It’s bigger than any apartment I've lived in during my adult life.

“Can you come back and clean later?” His deep, gravelly voice makes me jump. He’s either the world’s biggest asshole, or he doesn’t remember.

“Not a cleaner, buddy.” I glare at his stretched-out form, a little extra bite coming through my words, partially from him calling me a cleaner and partially because I am freaking out.

He peeks a sleepy head up and smiles at me. His shaggy brown hair is sticking up in every direction possible. If I didn’t want to throttle him right now, I would find it kind of endearing. “Uh, sorry.” His grin almost looks sheepish.

His reaction tells me this is far from unusual for him. Fantastic.

“My name is Ava. I’m hoping you have more of a recollection from last night than I do.” Right now, he is only looking vaguely familiar, but I’m pretty sure he was the reason I rode that mechanical bull. Unfortunately, that is where my memory runs dry.

“Ava.” He mulls the name over, his eyes pinch closed. “Yes, the cowgirl. I taught you how to ride last night.”

I’m not sure if that is a dirty joke or if I had ridden something other than him last night.

“Yeah, uhm, can you do me a favor and see if there is a little silver band on your left hand?” This pulls him right out of his stupor.

He sits up, the sheet falling and revealing his beautiful, chiseled chest. If this wasn’t such a shit show, I would sit and admire it a little longer because he is built like a Greek God, but I see it when he does: the glinting little silver band wrapped around his finger.

“Fuuuuck.” He stares at his finger with the same incredulous look as me.

The smile that comes to my face is lit with sarcasm. “Welcome to the panic party. Now, if you would like to join me, I’m searching to see if we have a copy of a marriage license lying around here or if this is all a big misunderstanding.”

“Shit, sorry.” He shakes his head, probably trying to shake off the pounding headache if he's anything like me right now. “And sorry for calling you a cleaner. No need to panic. I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding.” At least one of us has a cheery demeanor this morning.

Waving off his apology, I say, “It’s fine. I’ve checked most surfaces.” Maybe this will go a little faster now that there are two of us.

“I’ll check my pockets from last night.” He rolls out of bed, and I turn my head just as I get a peek at his bare ass. His very nice bare ass, but once again, we are on a mission.

That reminds me to check my purse. Running barefoot through the plush cream-colored carpet, I see it hanging on the edge of a chair. At least I didn’t lose it. Trying to fly home without my ID would be a nightmare.

I hurdle over a pile of clothes. He’s nice to look at, but sure is messy. Ripping open the bag, relief floods me when I see that all that’s in there is my ticket stub from last night, a lip gloss, and my ID. I hold it to my chest in relief. At least that’s one crisis adverted.

I wait for a response, but when I turn, I see he’s put on underwear and holding a piece of paper.

Please be a paper saying literally anything else other than we are married.

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