Last Name - Dr. Rebecca Sharp Page 0,49

he’s your divor—”

“I’ll pick up,” I broke in before she said too much. “Thanks.”

I wanted for her to close the door before hitting the button on my phone and holding the headset up to my ear.

“Dan? It’s James.”

“Oh good. Oh good.” The nervous jitter in his voice belied his reputation for being one of the best attorneys in the area for such things. “Mr. Arden. James. Excuse me.” He cleared his throat, and my fingers began to drum with impatience on my desk. “I apologize. I had to call right away.”

“Is everything okay?” I demanded, trying to focus him.

I wasn’t expecting a call. I was expecting an envelope of papers—both with ones that proved what had been done and the ones that needed to be signed in order to dissolve it.

“Well, that’s the thing, Mr. Arden—James.” He coughed a second time. “I had to come down here—to Vegas—because I needed the rest of the documentation.”

“Yes, you said the chapel was having trouble finding it.” I rubbed my fingers on my brow, having been too distracted trying to win Carrie over that I couldn’t recall what exactly had been missing.

“Well, sir, I’ve come down here and realized that the reason they are having trouble finding it—finding the license—is because, Mr. James, it doesn’t exist.”

“What?” My hand dropped onto my desk with a loud slap. “I have a copy—a signed copy that I can send you. Trust me, it does—”

“Well, that’s just the thing, sir—Mr. James.”

I didn’t even bother to correct the way he’d merged my name.

“What you have is a copy of the marriage certificate.”

“Okay…”

“But no copy of the marriage license. And that is because you never got one.”

I sat in silent shock long enough that it encouraged the rambling man to continue, “In order to get married, you need to apply for a license first—even in Vegas—before going to the chapel and getting the—”

“I know how it works,” I ground out, forcefully admitting to my own idiocy.

What had I been thinking?

Of course, we hadn’t gone for a license—we hadn’t planned on getting married. But waking up with a ring on my finger next to a beautiful woman and a piece of paper that said she was mine appeared to have faded certain facts from my consciousness.

Sure, maybe I thought that the chapel was allowed to provide licenses—or did provide them to customers. Or maybe I thought that the rules were different in Vegas. Christ, you were allowed to drink openly on the street, why the hell wouldn’t they let you get married without having to get a license first?

“So…” I drawled slowly. Painfully. The smile that had been etched in my cheeks was now acid-burned from my face. “What you’re saying is that I’m…”

“Not married. Yes. Correct,” he finished for me. “You and Ms. Bishop were never legally married.”

He began to ramble on, but the sound dulled into static as the receiver slid from my face.

I should’ve been relieved.

Relieved that I could tell Carrie she didn’t need to worry about this anymore.

Relieved that she didn’t have to worry about our relationship progressing with steps that were out of order.

Relieved that I hadn’t married the captivating blonde who’d taken me on a tour of the world and ended up the center of mine.

Instead, the only thing I felt was the densest dread settle in my stomach, realizing how much weight I’d put into the false security of believing she was already mine forever.

And now, the truth baked uncertainty into my cells. Hot. Sticky. Suffocating.

If she wasn’t tied to me, she could quit.

If she wasn’t tied to me, she could walk away again.

I stared at the phone like I’d just overplayed my hand.

I counted my chances wrong.

I’d risked too much.

And now, if she wanted, Carrie was free to walk away from this gamble, and I’d be the one left having lost the bet… and lost my heart.

The soreness between my thighs was a frequent and not-unwelcome reminder of just how unexpected of a turn my life had taken.

I stacked my newest groups of brochures into organized piles in the display alongside my desk.

If possible, it seemed as though in the last two weeks since the Arden Corporation takeover my office had been overflowing.

Not with coffee from James.

Not with gifts from that very same man.

No. With guests.

I would never ask for special treatment—I would never ask for anything—now that James and I were together. Married. Together. But the thought to request a revolving door had crossed my mind more than once recently.

“Knock, knock.”

I