“No, that’s right,” Jack snaps his fingers. “You stopped at the store, and you called someone…”
I groan and sink onto the edge of the tub. “Had to have been Maggie. She’s a friend from college. She works at Cobalt Diamonds.”
Jack questions, “If you asked her to let you in after-hours, you think she’d open the store for you?”
I nod strongly. “She’s done it before, mostly when I’m with Charlie.” I swipe a hand through my bed-head hair. “But maybe this is a good thing? We just bought rings. We didn’t actually get married.”
Jack reaches into his back pocket. The same pants he was wearing last night. He passes me a crumpled piece of paper.
I’m staring at my motherfucking marriage license.
We both signed it.
“No one’s talking about it on the internet,” Jack tells me. “Which means we somehow did this without paparazzi or people noticing.”
“Of course we fucking did.” I fold the piece of paper. “I’m a strategic genius, Highland. I can get married without it being on the news the next day. Apparently, I’m so fucking good, I even hid it from myself.” I start laughing, but it’s a stressed, panicked sound.
Jack points to the paper in my hands. “The name of the officiant and the two witnesses are all fraternity brothers.” He sucks in a breath. “So I’m just as much to blame. We must have run into them or something. I, honestly, don’t remember.”
I frown, the fuzzy parts starting to clear a little. “I think I do recall stumbling into some guy named Edgar. He wore an ugly plaid shirt that looked like vomit.”
Jack laughs. “Yeah, he’s a lawyer.” He shakes his head. “The crazy thing, Oscar, is none of this would have happened if we both weren’t so well-connected.”
“Look at us,” I say. “So popular we accidentally got hitched.”
Silence finally seeps in, and it strains something between us.
He’s my husband.
And I didn’t even know his middle-effing name until seeing it on the marriage license. Until right now. “Your full name is Jack Arizona Highland?” I question. “Arizona?”
He makes a pained face. “I was conceived in Arizona, apparently.”
I laugh, one that dies, but damn did I need that right now. The air sobers again. We stare at one another as the reality sinks and sinks.
Do I regret this? I’m a smart guy. Even drunk, I’m not going to do something I don’t want. Deep down, I love Jack, and I can’t imagine running to the courthouse to get it annulled. The thought causes my stomach to twist in tight, unthreadable knots.
But I also can’t imagine this being okay for him. Too soon are words that ring in my head. Maybe he thinks I drunkenly married him for his money. God, I hope not.
I lick my dry lips, mouth parched. “We can get it annulled.”
Jack doesn’t blink as he asks, “Is that what you want?”
My phone rings. For a second, I worry I might’ve drunk dialed Farrow or Donnelly last night, but I see it’s just Charlie.
I click into the call. “Hey.”
“We’re going to Vienna. I’m leaving in five.” He hangs up.
And just like that, there’s no time to discuss what to do. No time to even get an annulment if we wanted. We’re headed to Austria.
35
JACK HIGHLAND
Oscar and I agree to pocket our rings and not speak about the marriage until we’re alone again. A difficult task, seeing as how we spent ten hours on a private plane with Charlie.
I think maybe we’ll get time to talk when we check into a two-bedroom suite in a five-star hotel. But we’re there for less than two minutes, just enough time to drop our bags.
Charlie’s true destination is a baroque palace, open to the public. Acres of gardens, an orangery, and fountains all landscape a historic, stunning structure.
“Johann Lukas von Hildebrandt was the architect,” Charlie tells me as we stop in an area under a ceiling mural, chandeliers, and gold molding. Five windows have breathtaking views of the gardens. Charlie’s eyes trace the painted ceiling. “It was commissioned as a summer home for Prince Eugene of Savoy.” His voice carries a reverence whenever he talks about architecture or art.
Hands on my camera, I capture Charlie and the palace in an appealing frame. “What do you like about it?” I ask, eyeing him outside of the lens.
He smiles and says something in French. I glance over my shoulder, wishing Oscar were here to translate for me.
Currently, he’s busy talking to the palace’s security by the door. A few visitors strolling