“If you were drunk enough to black out your memory, I’m surprised city hall issued you a license.”

“I didn’t go to city hall.”

“You must have. Can’t get married in Vegas without a license.”

“We must have gotten one at the chapel.”

Mick shook his head. Hadn’t lived in Nevada all those years and learned nothing. “Nope. The wedding venues aren’t certified for that. For a marriage to be legal, you’d have had to obtain a marriage license from city hall.”

Sarah slowly placed her mug down on the table. She did it cautiously, almost as if the mug were in danger of detonating.

“You okay?”

She looked up at him, eyes wide and slightly wild. “I’m pretty sure . . . I didn’t go to city hall. I mean . . . unless in Vegas the city hall stays open late?” She reached across the table and clutched his arm. “Can we check on your phone?” Her face was intent. He could see hope and caution duking it out.

He tipped his chin toward her. “It’s in my jacket.” Her hands scrambled over his jacket. “Lower pocket. On the right.” She tugged his phone out, and Mick belatedly remembered that he had been googling her before she got into his car. Had he cleared the screen? Shit. He extended his hand, palm up, with a calm he didn’t feel. Who is the asshole now? “Here. I’ll do it.” As she dropped the cell phone in his hand, her cool fingers made momentary contact with his and sent electrical currents zinging through him. Keeping his phone screen angled away from her view, Mick swiped up, removing the Google search of Rachel Jones, then tapped Safari and typed “Las Vegas, city hall, hours.”

“What does it say?”

He felt like a prick, the way she was looking at him so trustingly. “Seven a.m. to five thirty p.m.”

She paled even more. Looked as if she were about to faint, her hands rising to her mouth. “Holy Mary mother of God,” she whispered. And then joy, pure unadulterated joy seemed to fill her entire being. “I . . . I don’t think I’m married, Mick.” Her voice started gaining in strength. “I can’t be. I never went to city hall.”

“Hold on a minute.” He wanted nothing more than to jump on board, but one of them needed to be practical. “You might have gone. You told me you were drunk, didn’t remember the ceremony. Maybe you went, but don’t remember—”