While I’m waiting for room service, I get a call from Justin. Probably checking up on me per Barron’s orders. Sighing, I answer it.
“What’s up?” I say with extra cheeriness. He doesn’t need to know that Evie and I are wearing wedding bands. Or that I have partial amnesia about yesterday.
He doesn’t waste time with a greeting. “Are you really married?”
I almost swallow my tongue. Shit. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
It would probably be good enough for someone else. But not my brother. “Oh, hell. What they’re saying is true, then.”
“Who is they and what are they saying?” Most importantly, what the fuck does he know in L.A. that I don’t in Vegas?
“The tabloids. They’re saying you eloped with your assistant.”
I run a hand over my face, doing my best to kick the panic away. Stall. Give yourself time to regroup. “You read tabloids? Since when?”
“Ryder’s PR people keep an eye on things and happened to notice, and they let him know. He called Vanessa.”
Oh, shit. Ryder Reed is both Elizabeth’s brother and Vanessa’s cousin. Just my fucking luck. And if his people saw it, it means the article isn’t on some obscure nobody-knows-about-this-site-dot-com. “Send me the link.”
I hear some rustling in the background.
“Sent. Now… You didn’t answer the question,” Justin says.
How much should I say? On the other hand, what’s the point of lying when he’s going to find out everything soon enough anyway? “Why don’t you ask Ken if a wedding is valid if I don’t remember any of it?”
Justin swears. “How much did you drink?”
“Only three!”
“Bottles? At least tell me they were whiskeys.”
“Three normal drinks. Four, if you really want to count a port, but the glass was tiny.”
“Man… Bro.” His tone is full of pity and something else I can’t identify. “Three lousy drinks and you’re married?”
“Hold on a sec.” I need to see the damned article. I’m at a distinct disadvantage here. “Lemme check my mail.”
Pinching the phone between my shoulder and ear, I dig through my suitcase and find my tablet. Email from Justin, email from Justin…
There.
I click on the link. It takes me to The Hollywood News, which has pictures of me and Evie at the restaurant. Going to the casino, laughing. So far, so good. The plan was to get those out there.
But then there’s more. Shocking pictures of us going into the chapel across the street from the hotel. Then coming out. There are flowers in Evie’s hair and a bouquet in my hand.
I stare, absolutely dumbfounded. No fucking way these are real. They’ve gotta be fake. Photoshopped. Motherfuckers. I’m going to sue their ass until there’s no ass left, because this is an injustice! I’m a nice guy, but not that nice.
So who the hell put the ring on your finger, then? And on Evie’s?
Shut up, logic.
“Barron doesn’t read The Hollywood News, does he? It’s not really his thing.” He’s more like the Wall Street Journal type. Or used to be, while he led Sterling & Wilson.
“He might. Stella likes celebrity gossip.”
Crap. Why, Stella, why? Why can’t you be a New York Times-reading lady who likes to lunch?
“You think Mom knows, too?” I say, a sinking feeling in my gut.