Get Lucky by Lila Monroe

witness.
    “They look happy,” Nate says. Even he sounds gruffly pleased for them. “At least someone is.” His gaze darkens as he says it. He squares his jaw just a bit.
    Pure rejected alpha pain, right here on display.
    Should I bring up the I know your tragic back story angle? No, maybe not. Right now, we’ve just entered the realm of civility.
    Stacy reaches into her enormous tote bag for something. She stops talking to Mike, fishes around, and then comes up with—
    “Holy shit,” Stacy cries, pulling out my purse. It is definitely mine; hard to find a vinyl number in that particular shade of hot pink. Her eyes go wide. “I forgot I had this. I found it in the boys’ hotel suite this morning, and you weren’t there, and—shit. I was going to find you after breakfast, but everything started happening and . . . . I’m so sorry. You must’ve been frantic,” she says, turning back to me.
    I practically tear it out of her hands. I check my important things, and they’re all there. Credit cards, driver’s license, everything.
    “I didn’t know how I was going to get on the plane without my ID.” I groan, squeezing the damn purse to my chest. “I love you, Stacy. Long time. Very long time.”
    “Careful now, it’s my wedding day.” Stacy laughs. I turn back to Nate, who’s eyeing my purse with curiosity.
    “You think there’s anything in there? Related to what we did last night?” he asks.
    Oh shit. Maybe.
    “You coming?” Stacy calls, grinning widely at us as they all cram into a cab. I smile and shrug.
    “We’ll, ah, catch up with you all back at the hotel.”
    “Have fun,” Shanna calls, wiggling her eyebrows.
    Yep. We’ll have a ton of fun tracking down whatever insane shit we did last night. A regular Nick and Nora Charles, that’s us. Except without the insane amount of drinking and the murder mystery. Well. Without one of those things. Hopefully.
    While the taxi drives away, we dig through my purse. At first we find only the normal stuff, wallet, lip gloss. At least I don’t have to carry my iPhone in my pocket any longer. I dump it in with the other items.
    “What’s this?” Nate asks, finally noticing my phone and its blue, British telephone box casing.
    “The TARDIS. Remember, like the one on my ass now?” I grumble. “If only you were a Whovian,” I tell him, continuing to paw through my things.
    “A whatvian?”
    “Who, not what. I mentioned it before, it’s a show—” And then I stop dead. Because in my hand, there’s a ball of gauzy white fabric.
    Nate furrows his brow and grabs it, holds it up like he’s examining it.
    “Why do you have Stacy’s bridal veil?” he asks, puzzling over it. But my heart’s now wedged right in my throat. That makes breathing kind of awkward.
    “Stacy’s veil was shorter. And had a tiara. Trust me, romance authors know one wedding veil from the other.”
    Is it just me, or is the desert rippling in front of my eyes right now? I expect a mirage any second, a neon sign with flashing lights shimmering, spelling out YOU’RE SCREWED in bold lettering.
    “So whose is it?” Nate asks. He’s sounding a little panicked as well; I think he’s putting two and two together.
    “Hang on.” I turn on my phone and flip through my photos. I don’t know why I didn’t think to do this before, but I don’t have to look very far.
    There we are, sloppily drunk and grinning, with our arms around each other. My veil is hanging kind of askew on my head, and my lipstick is smeared all the way down my cheek. And all over Nate’s face as well. But there’s no mistaking the Elvis Presley impersonator standing behind us, holding up two gold wedding rings and grinning that lopsided King grin.
    It can’t. It can’t be.
    “Did we get . . . ” Nate chokes on the last word, then manages it. “Married?”
    We gaze into each other’s eyes, horror seeming to flood both of us at the exact same time. Good thing, too, because if one was super