Hitched (Hitched #1)(7)

I should be irritated that Sebastian would be so presumptuous about my evening plans and entire future, but my stomach dances with those butterflies. I want to see him again. Need to see him again.

My pigheaded stubbornness does its best to present all the reasons why getting involved with this guy is a very bad idea. We met in a drunken haze of sex and need, and that's no way to start a healthy relationship. I barely know him. I don't want anything serious right now. I like to keep my life simple, orderly, focused.

The list is endless, but underneath all of that, my heart is adamant that I must see him again. Must kiss him and feel his lips against mine. Must taste him.

Must have him.

With this in mind, I slip the ring through my silver necklace and tuck it beneath my shirt, just so I can give it back to him without losing it. I'm grateful he sent back my shoe, and I place it with its twin, then put the roses in a vase and center it on my dresser. No point in wasting beautiful flowers.

As for the note, I stick it in my red Coach bag and try to forget about it for now.

I reach for my MacBook and fire it up, doing a search for annulments in Las Vegas. Turns out, it's not that hard, especially if both parties agree. Assuming the judge rules that I was in fact incapable of making informed consent given my state that night.

I print out the forms we need, sign and fill out what I can, and stick them in my purse next to his note. Even if we end up f*cking again—the thought of him inside me makes me wet—once we get these signed and notarized, we'll be set. It shouldn't take more than a few weeks for the annulment to be final and our lives to go back to normal.

Now I feel better. Mostly better. Definitely better. Maybe in a few years when our business is booming, and we can move into bigger events and party planning, when I can hire a bigger staff and step away from the day-to-day operations a little more, maybe then the timing will be better for me to think about something serious.

I go downstairs to rejoin my brother and figure out a way to get Joey off his “tank” kick.

"Hey, sis." Tate says, feet resting on the coffee table as he works on his laptop. "Come to any major life decisions up there all alone in your room?"

"Everything is sorted out. I'll be seeing him tomorrow to finalize things." My heart does a little skip at that, but I ignore the traitorous beast.

Tate doesn't look convinced. He raises an eyebrow, his blue eyes reading too much into my face, I'm sure. Damn him for knowing me so well.

I sigh with more drama than the situation requires and flop onto the couch next to him. "Stop looking at me like that. Yes, he was the most amazing sex I've ever had. And yes, he's an amazing catch in a sea of slimy serpents, but he's not for me. We're from two different worlds. It would never work. What could a girl with a business degree who plans bachelor parties possibly have in common with a f*cking pediatric heart surgeon?"

He throws his arm over my shoulder. "I don't know. But there's no harm in finding out, right?"

***

I'd like to say that I hadn't given any thought to the package Sebastian promised would be arriving today. I'd like to say that over the last twenty-four hours my mind never drifted to the few memories I still have of our tumultuous night together. That I didn't scamper to the front door like a dog every time I heard something that could possibly be construed as a delivery.

I'd like to say all of those things. But you and I both know that would be a load of a shit, right?

I know I'm not the first woman to feel these flutters of butterflies at the mere thought of a man, but I still feel like a numskull, nonetheless. This isn't me. This has never been me. While my high school girlfriends were going crazy about boys, I was studying. While my college friends were crushing on guys, I was having meaningless flings to satiate needs while I stayed focused on my life plans.

Running a business like mine might not seem like the loftiest of goals, but it was a strategic plan on my part to build something small into something big. This is a market in demand, regardless of the economy. People want their wedding, and their pre-wedding parties, to be memorable. And people, men in particular, like their strippers. And I like running my own life, having a career that I control, not working for someone else who tells me when I can eat and use the bathroom and make a phone call. I'm too autonomous for that shit. So this business suits me perfectly. And I have big plans for expansion.

Men, relationships, emotional attachments—those just complicate shit. It makes the whole world muddled. I've seen it happen to my girlfriends time and again, women I hardly ever see anymore. Women who don't have time for the things they loved before.

I don't want to be one of those women.

That's why I'm not going to let Dr. Sexy woo me beyond one night.

So when the doorbell rings (finally, f*ck!) and I accept the package I know is from him, I refuse to acknowledge the schoolgirl giddiness I'm feeling in the pit of my stomach.

But Tate watches me pull off the red ribbon from the box with his knowing grin, and I want to smack it off of him.

"Fuck off," I tell him as I open the lid.

"You're all talk, my love-sick twin."

With all the maturity born of years of study, I stick my tongue out at him and then suck in my breath when I see what's in the box. With shaking hands I pull out the most stunning red dress, shoes and matching lipstick. Russian Red, the Mac label says. But I'm more focused on the clothes. A pair of designer shoes, and a dress that I know put him out a shit ton of money. (That's a real amount by the way. You can look it up. It'll have a picture of this dress and these shoes next to it.)