CHAPTER ONE

F inn

It's going to be fine.

I need to close my eyes again, and this annoyingly lucid dream will shift.

There is absolutely no way I am in bed with Noah Fitzpatrick. People just called up from the AHL don't room with first-line players.

Which means I'm having a dream about being in bed with Noah Fitzpatrick, which isn't hugely advantageous.

Obviously, it's not like I'm gay or anything. I'm a hockey player.

I close my eyes and wait for the dream to change. It doesn't.

I can still hear breathing, still feel the soft mattress and softer sheet against my sweaty skin, still smell a cologne not my own. Memories of a night that couldn't possibly have happened barrage my mind. I came here to play Vegas, not to venture into a pink chapel that has always been the punchline in comedies.

The dream isn't changing.

I decide this path isn't working. I flip around, and he's there. Short dark hair, a freckled nose that is the perfect amount of straight and curved, long black lashes, and green eyes that...

My heart sprints.

Green eyes that are looking straight at me.

"This isn't a dream," I say .

"Why would..." Noah's voice rumbles, last night's alcohol giving it a husky, roughened edge I shouldn't find appealing, and his sleepy eyes widen. "Oh, shit."

I nod eagerly. He gets it.

Noah scrambles from his side of the bed, causing the mattress to bounce, and I swear he's not wearing anything. His shoulders are wide and sturdy, formed from years of dedication. My gaze temporarily drifts downward, past his six-pack, to a set of V-shaped muscles that aren't supposed to look interesting. He yanks the sheet from the bed, and I roll away, letting him wrap the silky fabric around himself. Now he looks like a sleepy-eyed toga-wearing frat boy. I pull the blanket over me because copying his pose would be strange, and my body doesn't realize this so isn't the time for morning wood.

"Did we—?" Noah can't finish the sentence. I won't finish it for him. The words don't feel right coming out of my mouth, even though I know how he wants to end it.

"If we did, there should be a certificate."

He nods. "Right. Good thinking."

Noah is Mr. Agreeable.

He lunges for something, and I don't notice the manner the silky gray sheet slides over his pale skin at all. No way. That would be strange, and I'm not strange. I'm definitely not gay. Not me.

Noah scrambles around on the glossy marble floor like an Olympic wrestler, muscles flexing, hair catching the light.

I dart my gaze around the room, noting the luxury black grass wallpaper, the gold-framed mirrors, the crystal chandelier, the view of the entire strip, the sparkling, garish lights now off, the inky sky replaced with a hazy blue.

I blink.

The NHL treats us super well, but this so isn't my suite.

My room didn't have a tray of Dom Perignon and crystal flutes. A trail of red petals leads to the door. I glance at the headboard, and it is a tasteful black...and a less tasteful heart shape.

"Are we in the honeymoon suite?" My voice is gravelly, and I swallow back the taste of alcohol. Ugh. My head thunders, and I sink into the mattress.

Noah raises up a piece of paper. "Found it."

My organs slither together.

Whatever he's holding up looks official.

The blue-and-white document has both of our names on it: Finn Carrington and Noah Fitzpatrick.

It's our marriage certificate.