One, I’ve sworn off men.

Two, Jase Gizmodo is used to playing women. He may be charming and sweet, but I’m under no pretenses that our kiss was more than a kiss to sell the lie, regardless of how damn earth-shattering it was.

Or how much I can’t stop thinking about it.

I glance at the diamonds glittering on my ring finger and my head dizzies.

I’m married. We’re married. And while the ceremony seemed like it should play out like the cheesy B-list movies where the couple gets married in Vegas, it didn’t.

Sure we laughed our way through it—the cheesy vows, the Elvis impersonator marrying us, the organ playing as I marched down the aisle—but that’s just it, we laughed our way through it.

We had the best time together. Tequila shots and voiced I do’s followed by holy shit as he pressed his lips to mine under the neon lights with Elvis crooning, complete with a corny photograph session after to top it off.

Followed by another shot.

I look over at Jase in the dimly lit elevator beside me. His bow tie is undone and hanging loosely around the unbuttoned collar of his dress shirt. The almost empty bottle of tequila is in one hand while the other is resting politely on my lower back.

He’s striking even now as I stare at him and think about the kiss earlier in the hotel room. His lips. His skill. The taste of tequila on his tongue. The way he stole my breath and heated my body in one fell, fucking swoop.

He turns to look at me, the blue of his eyes so light. I don’t know what I expected from him after the ceremony—anger maybe over having to get married, aloofness definitely given what I am to him—but it most definitely wasn’t the mixture of pride and mischief that I see in them right now.

A slow grin crawls across his lips as he shakes his head. “Sorry for the sucky last name.” He pulls me against his side and murmurs, “I’ve always hated it but now we can hate it together.”

“It’s not bad.”

“Whatever you say, Mrs. Gizmodo.”

The sound of those words makes my stomach twist. “You’re right. That might take some getting used to.”

“I think there might be a lot of that to get used to in the coming days, but we’ll figure it out. And if we don’t, my house is big enough that when you’re mad at me, you have plenty of room to steer clear of me.”

“You can just as easily be angry with me.”

He angles his head to the side and meets my eyes. “I doubt that’s possible.”

The elevator arrives at our private floor, but when I look around, it’s a different foyer than I remember. “I don’t think this is the right—”