Pranked Read Free Page B

sex. As I looked around, I spotted other hints of last night’s activities. My bra was hanging over a lamp, my tank top wrapped tightly around the leg of a chair. My skirt was nowhere in sight.
    Distant explosions of memory from the night before begin to fill in some of the still very foggy picture. His broad hands on my naked hips, his burning lips against the side of my neck.
    Whether or not we were married was still very much up for debate, but there was no doubt in my mind that I had spent the night with him. I tried to sort out how I felt about that. I navigated around thoughts and feelings while trying unsuccessfully to ignore the fact that this stranger was now the only other guy I’ve ever had sex with besides Ken.
    If I’d felt like my life was spiraling out of control last night, this just showed how things could always find a way to get worse.
    “We got married by an Elvis impersonator,” he continued. Was I really this much of a cliché? Thoughts of other child stars who’d crashed and burned before me filled my head. Lindsay Lohan... Miley Cyrus... Hell, Britney had even had a her own 14-hour Vegas marriage.
    “He sang ‘Don’t Be Cruel’ at the reception. I was starting to get jealous, actually. You seemed pretty taken with him.” He was laughing, but I was genuinely freaking out. Couldn’t he see the fear in my eyes. The shock?
    I kept thinking of those names—Lohan, Cyrus, Spears—all of them continuing to run through my head like a litany. I thought about my mom, how worried she’d always been that I’d have a similar breakdown. I thought of Ken, as I left his house, sobbing. I heard the exact timbre of his voice as he told me, coldly, that it was only a matter of time before I’d end up just like them: a handful of babies, laundry list of addictions, and a string of divorces.
    And here I was, right on the way to at least one of those. First wedding already under my belt.
    I looked back at this guy. He was still standing there, naked and confident, staring at me like he was waiting for a reaction.
    As husbands went, I could have done much worse. He was easy on the eyes, if nothing else, hard muscles and dark hair framing soft blue eyes and a smile that drew me in, even in my confused state. Just looking at him brought a hitch to my breathing. There was something about the way he looked at me. Like he believed there was more to me than Gabby Rover. Like he wanted me for myself. Like my unemployment and scandal didn’t bother him. Like he didn’t believe I was eventually going to crash and burn, even if my descent had already begun. And looking into those eyes and across that body, as he in turn watched me with a gaze seemingly filled with the hope and belief that a husband might feel toward his new bride, it actually made my body ache for his.
    “I…,” I began, unsure where to go from there. I still had my doubts about his story, despite the overwhelming evidence of what seemed like a very passionate night together. If we had done all of that and I didn’t remember it, then who was to say we hadn’t also gotten married? But I still wasn’t sure. I once trusted people by default, but ever since finding Ken with Fiona, I’d felt like maybe I’d just been too gullible. An easy target to be made the fool.
    “Wait a minute,” I started again. “If we’re married, where’s my ring?” I held up my left hand to show the conspicuously bare finger.
    “Being sized,” my alleged husband said, not missing a beat. He stepped closer and took the hand I was still holding up, bringing it to his lips and kissing my fingertips. “You have adorably tiny fingers, dear. Tiffany’s didn’t carry your size in store.”
    “And where’s your ring?” I asked, tugging my hand back, despite the tingle of pleasure that seemed to blossom out from where his lips had touched my skin, and the flash of a memory: my fingers in his mouth, the heat of his tongue curling around them.
    “You refused to let