Jax (Titan #9)(67)

"Yeah, hello." He paused. "Can I get room service for two? Pancakes, waffles, coffee…" He looked up at her as Seven's jaw fell open. "Do you like eggs? I'm good with scrambled."

"What?"

Jax flinched as though she'd made his headache kick his temples, then turned back to the phone call. "Scrambled. Actually, make that scrambled with cheese. And if you have any sports drinks, something with electrolytes, we need a couple of those. Some ibuprofen and multivitamins too. And Bloody Marys. That should help." He paused again. "Right, yeah. Oh, I forgot whose room I'm in. Look up Jax Michaelson, and it'll have whatever Vegas package you offer that brings hangover medicine with my breakfast." Another pause. "Titan Group. That's me. Thanks."

He hung up the phone and lay back down as she gaped. "Let me know when they get here. Night, princess."

###

The covers grated against Jax's skin. He could normally sleep through anything, but the revelation was like an earthquake. Every time Seven huffed and puffed, it served as a simple reminder that they'd had far too much to drink last night. But he wasn't upset, nothing like she was. Maybe it was a hangover. Maybe he was hungry. Cake wasn't much of a dinner. Marriage was life altering, but the non-reaction he was having wasn't what either one of them would have expected.

Or was it?

He grumbled as she groaned, more at doubting his uncertainty than because of the pounding in his head reminding him that he wasn't ten years younger. He couldn't remember a time when he'd had so much to drink that there were parts of the night missing.

"That's not what I meant," Seven snapped.

Why, at this moment, her exasperation made him smile, he had no idea. But it made a small grin crawl onto his face, and he snaked an arm around her bare waist, hooking her to him and eliciting another round of annoyed grumbles. He repositioned on the pillow to face her and was met with a bright-eyed and wild-haired beauty, who looked seconds away from figuring out how to conjure fire at the tip of her tongue.

"Jax! This. Is. A. Huge. Problem."

With his arm still around her waist, he chuckled, entertained that he could feel her abdomen muscles punctuate each word.

"I'm not going to do anything with you screeching in my ear," he said quietly.

He got married? He got married. Truth was, he had always been of the mindset that everything happened for a reason. It was the only way he had survived the death of his wife. His first wife.

Carrie's life had had meaning. They'd been young, but they had known enough to sign up for a career in which they'd been willing to die. They had each expected their own death, but maybe not the other's. He certainly hadn't expected Carrie's—not by their government, and sure as fuck not before they'd gotten out of the church. It had never occurred to him he wouldn't make it to the honeymoon.

Was there irony that he couldn't remember getting married and consummating his marriage with Seven? Or was that a new way to torture himself?

How had he allowed this to happen?

Maybe because it was supposed to happen… Maybe he was still drunk.

"You aren't taking this seriously." The scowl on Seven's face proved she believed he wasn't and that she had no idea what was going through his head.

He'd barely acknowledged to himself how this woman had crawled under his skin and sunk her claws in without even trying. Maybe his subconscious was tired of waiting for him to live again, but this was like going from zero to lightning speed. "Believe me, princess, I am."

"Maybe this is fake. Maybe this doesn't count."

His stomach rolled as a small wave of disappointment surprised him. "Maybe," he said gruffly.

Her eyes shot to him like blue daggers. "Because then we could just leave the rings on the nightstand and pretend none of that happened. Do you see what I'm saying?"

Either way, this was the end of the fucking. Anything moving forward would be tainted and awkward. No dude wanted to get a blow job from someone dying to get his ring off her finger. Yet she hadn't clawed the thing off yet. "Is that what you want, Seven?"

"Of course it is! Obviously, you do, Mr. Ladies Love a SEAL."

That said nothing about her and everything about who she thought he was—which he didn't buy for a second. That slutty SEAL bullshit had been debunked weeks ago, and she was well aware. He gave her a placating smile and pulled his arm back, plumping his pillow. "Tell me when the food is here."

He picked the pillow up, covered his head so he couldn't hear any more grumblings, and wondered for the second time if he was still drunk.





CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


If Seven could have kicked six feet of solid muscle out of bed, Jax would have been naked on the floor. She was learning from this experience that no matter how hard she stared or tried to tap into any mental telepathy she might've ever had, he ignored her screams to get up, and the two-hundred-pound sexy slab of meat hadn't levitated out of bed. His nonchalance was almost too much. Trying his attitude on for size was an exercise in masochism. When she swore to God that she heard him snore, Seven tapped into every yoga and meditation class she'd ever gone to and lied about going to and tried to zen out. If he could be so calm, cool, and collected, she could sure as hell fake it as well as he could. Because there was no way in the entire world that Jax Michaelson was cool with getting married.