Page 19 of Pucked In Vegas

"Well, Mr. Holt, this has been... memorable." She continues gathering her things. "Congratulations on your new wife. Hope she’s worth the annulment paperwork."

She storms out in a blur of glitter and indignation, muttering something about being a stupid girl and needing to get her life back together.

And I just sit there, staring at the polaroid in my hand, wondering who the hell she is… and if I'm ever going to see her again.

Chapter Five

Cassie

Islam the door of my rental apartment, kick off my heels, and slide down against the wall. My head pounds like someone's using my brain for batting practice.

"What. Have. I. Done."

The room swims into focus. Depressing beige walls, a sad excuse for a kitchenette, and my half-unpacked suitcase vomiting clothes across the floor.

Home sweet temporary home.

I drag myself to the bathroom, gasping at my reflection. Mascara tracks down my cheeks. There's glitter… everywhere.

And is that... cake frosting in my hair?

"Mrs. Jackson Holt," I whisper, testing the name. It sounds ridiculous, but even now, I feel like I should know that name.

I grab a washcloth, and start scrubbing glitter off my skin like it’s evidence from a crime scene. Of course, it only spreads. I now have a glittery clavicle and a shimmering knee.

I drop the cloth in the sink and brace both hands on the counter.

Did I sleep with him?

Istilldon’t know. All I know is the way he looked at me… like I was something worth chasing. Something wild and bright and temporarilyhis.

God, I let a man with movie-star abs put a ring on my finger.

Cassie Holt.

What the hell is wrong with me?

After a scalding shower that does nothing to wash away my shame, I wrap myself in a towel and open my laptop. Maybe some good news will distract me from the cheap gold band I've stuffed into my makeup bag.

One new email.

Dear Ms. Hawthorne, Thank you for your interest in the Senior Events Coordinator position...

I don't need to read further. The "unfortunately" is implied already.

"Starting the day with a new rejection," I announce to the empty room. "Fantastic."

I flop onto the bed, smearing yesterday’s makeup across the pillowcase. My laptop slides off my legs and onto the coffee table with a dull thud.

"I'm competent. I haveexperience. I have a LinkedIn photo where I'm not even drunk." I scrub at a patch of glitter that'sstillon my thigh. "And now I have a husband. Perfect."

My stomach growls. I reach for the plate on the nightstand, picking at cold fries while memories from last night flash through my mind.

His hands on my waist.

His mouth on my neck.

The chapel bathroom, his fingers sliding up my thigh...

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