Marrying Mr. Wrong (Dirty Martini Running Club #3) - Claire Kingsley Page 0,19

That’s okay. Do you mind if I use the bathroom? I’ll be out of your way in a few minutes.”

I watched her, somewhat bewildered, while she grabbed her one shoe and quick-stepped into the bedroom. A second later, the bathroom door closed.

What the fuck had we done last night?

My head hurt and I was dehydrated as hell, so I grabbed a water out of the mini-fridge and took it to the couch. I sat, making sure the towel still covered my dick—since this hard-on wasn’t going anywhere, apparently—and chugged the water. There’s a reason I didn’t party like that anymore. I had a feeling I was going to be paying for it for at least the next twenty-four hours.

The flight home was sure going to be fun.

Sophie came out a few minutes later, her hair a little damp like she’d tried to wet it to get her curls to behave—with only marginal success. She’d found her other shoe, and she wore that curve-hugging purple dress that I’d spent last night fantasizing about taking off her.

Had I?

We’d both woken up naked.

But why couldn’t I remember?

“I have to go, but thank you for—” Her foot banged into something and she stumbled but didn’t fall this time. “What the…”

She picked up a red sign with a big number two on both sides. An MMA organization’s logo was at the bottom.

That’s right. We’d gone to a fight last night. And Sophie had—

“Oh my god.” She dropped it like it was hot. “I thought that was a dream. Please tell me I wasn’t one of the ring girls at an MMA fight.”

My lip curled in a smile. It was hazy, but that part started coming back to me. “You did. We were ringside and you said you wanted to go up there with the girls next round.”

“So you flagged someone down and they handed me this.”

“But you didn’t have a bikini, so you went up there in—”

“My underwear.”

She was so adorably mortified it was hard not to laugh.

“That was hot. And I seem to remember the crowd loving you.”

“Oh my god.” She covered her face with her hands. “I have to go.”

“Sophie, wait.”

She didn’t. Just grabbed her purse off the floor and rushed out the door.

I got up, holding the towel, and picked my way across the cluttered floor. I threw open the door but she’d already disappeared around the corner.

I was about to run after her when I realized I didn’t have a room key. The last thing I needed right now was to get locked out wearing nothing but a towel. Stepping back, I caught the door with my heel before it clicked shut.

“Fuck,” I muttered, looking both ways down the hall.

She was gone.

I waited another second because chances were she was running and she’d trip in her heels. But I didn’t hear anything.

Oddly disappointed that she was gone, I went back inside and used the bathroom. My boxer briefs were on the floor in the bedroom, so I tugged them on, then got another bottle of water and took it to the couch.

At least I knew how to get in touch with her. Shepherd Calloway’s office. That was something.

I took a long swig of water and looked around again.

Wait a minute.

There were pearly white balloons in one corner and a bouquet of white roses on the table. An open bottle of champagne stood next to a silver bucket.

This was a honeymoon suite.

Oh, fuck.

I got up and tore around the mess, looking for the rest of my clothes. Where were my fucking pants? I finally found them near the front door. Apparently I’d either shucked them as soon as we’d come in, or tossed them in that direction when I’d taken them off. Impossible to tell which.

There was something in the back pocket. Not cash. No chips or gambling winnings. Sophie had done all the winning last night, although I’d been prepared to fund her if she’d hit a losing streak, just because watching her gamble had been so much fun.

But something else tickled my memory. Something slightly less hazy than whatever had happened in this hotel suite last night.

I pulled a folded piece of paper out of the back pocket. It was exactly what I thought. This was an absolute disaster.

Because this time, what happened in Vegas wasn’t staying there.

8

Sophie

This wasn’t just a walk of shame. This was a Vegas walk of shame. A dash down a hotel hallway in last night’s dress with no bra, tottering on my high heels, hoping