When they played as partners—as they had for a couple of years in a league that even included tournaments—they were undefeated.
They were stupidly proud of their three trophies—that, of course, sat on a shelf at the west wall of Ellie’s.
Zeke groaned. “I call dibs on Jordan.”
“No way,” Fletcher told him as Jordan headed for the bar with Zander to retrieve the darts and the tequila. “She’s going home with me. I’ve got her.”
“You’ve always got her. And she’s way lighter than Zander,” Zeke groused.
They’d both had to do firemen carries on the dart champions in the past.
“Plus, Jordan gets sweet when she drinks tequila. Zander gets…more Zander-ish.”
Fletcher chuckled. That was also true. Whiskey made Jordan sassy and got her riled up. But tequila made her sappy and sweet. All liquor just made Zander more sarcastic and stubborn.
“Guess you should have gone to Vegas and married her,” Mitch said to Zeke, clapping him on the back. “Then you could have carried her home.”
“Yeah, well, you just fucked up your wedding night, man,” Zeke said, looking past Fletcher.
He turned to watch Jordan and Zander clearing people out of the path of the dart board and getting ready for their first throws.
He pivoted back to his beer, but not before he caught Mitch’s knowing look.
Okay, so Mitch and Zander had both figured out that he was trying to get his wife so drunk she wouldn’t be up for any fooling around tonight.
He just needed a little time here.
He was married to his best friend.
She’d once puked orange all over the floor of his car, by the way. And she’d bled on him. He’d also had to carry half of her left third toe on their way to the hospital. And they hadn’t even been able to reattach it. Yeah, Jordan only had half of a third toe. And in sixth grade he’d read her diary about how cute Michael LeClaire was and how she wanted to kiss him “so much it hurt”.
Yeah, he knew plenty of gross and embarrassing things about her.
But as she threw her first dart and thrust her arms into the air with a triumphant cheer and beamed at his brother, Fletcher realized that he had to make this work.
He always made everything work for Jordan.
Obviously their marriage had just moved to the top of that list.
9
Jordan’s head was pounding when she opened her eyes and she promptly squeezed them shut again.
It didn’t help much.
Fucking tequila.
Fucking Zander Landry.
Fucking competitive streak and her inability to let anyone beat her, especially a Landry boy, without giving it her all.
Okay, she’d let Zander win at the end, the way she always did. But she’d definitely made him earn it.
She was never drinking again.
Okay, she was never drinking tequila again.
Jordan was aware that she’d made that very promise at least a dozen times in her life.
And that Zander Landry always made her forget tequila hated her and had been invented for the sole purpose of torturing her.
He was the devil.
She moaned and pressed a hand against the center of her forehead where her brain was threatening to pound through her skull. She felt as if someone had bashed her over the head with the tequila bottle rather than just pouring the contents of it into a glass. Repeatedly.
She was really going to have to get her shit together. If she was going to be living in Autre and seeing Zander on a regular basis they were both going to need to grow up. He couldn’t be feeling any better than she was right now.
She hoped there was a major cop issue for him to deal with today. Well, not a major cop issue. Cop issues could get pretty bad and she didn’t want any of that happening in Autre. But maybe a couple of neighbors could have a fight over one of their dogs pooping in the other one’s yard or something equally annoying. And loud.
She took a deep breath, knowing that her only hope was a large bottle of Gatorade, a bunch of carbs, and caffeine. And ibuprofen. Lots and lots of ibuprofen.
Which meant she was going to have to get up to get those items.
Which meant she was going to have to move.
Which sounded like a generally terrible idea at the moment.
She took a deep breath. Then another.
Oh, that was nice. That smell. That was…Fletcher.
Her eyes flew open. Then she groaned and let them slide shut again.
But she breathed deep again. The smell was nice. Even if the bright sunlight in the room wasn’t.
The room smelled like Fletcher.
Because this room was Fletcher’s.
She was waking up in Fletcher’s room. In Fletcher’s bed.
In their bed.
Her heart thumped inside her chest and she took another deep breath, this time less to savor the scent and more to calm the butterflies that were suddenly having a house party in her stomach.
She slowly opened her eyes, willing herself to tolerate sunlight as she rolled her head to the left. Ouch. Yep, that was the window in Fletcher’s bedroom. Not that she’d ever seen it from this particular angle, but she’d been in this room before. Fletcher had lived in this house for about four years now. Ever since they’d graduated from college. She’d helped him move into it. Taking another deep breath, she rolled her head to the right, more slowly this time. Yeah, that was his bedside table, his alarm clock, and his lamp.
She was definitely lying in Fletcher’s bed. Which made sense, she supposed, considering she was his wife.
Holy shit. She was Fletcher’s wife. She was waking up in his bed. The morning after their wedding. She started to sit up at that thought. Then realized that was a horrible idea and let herself back down—gently—onto the pillow.
Great. She’d gotten wasted with Zander on her wedding night.
Which meant she hadn’t really had a wedding night.
Dammit.
That was really too bad.
She had a hot, charming, rumored-to-be-amazing-in-bed husband now. He’d literally flown to her rescue yesterday and swept her off her feet. He’d kissed her like he’d been starving for her for years. He’d promised to love her and cherish her ’til he died.
And she’d felt what he had behind his zipper against her butt. Twice.
Yeah, she’d messed up last night. Big time. Pun intended.
Okay, she had to get up.
The most difficult thing she’d do all day would be going from horizontal to vertical. She needed to get it over with.
Getting upright, getting water, even brushing her teeth would help her feel better. And surely Fletcher had ibuprofen.
With a deep breath and her eyes squeezed shut, Jordan pushed herself up to sitting, bracing against the pounding in her head. When it lessened to a dull roar, she threw the covers back and pivoted to sit on the edge of the bed. After two minutes she opened her eyes.
Okay. She was going to live. Maybe she hadn’t had as much tequila as she thought. The long emotional day, the lack of sleep, and the champagne with the cake had probably all combined to make even a small amount of tequila seem more potent.
Some good food, a gallon or two of coffee, and maybe a nap later and she’d be good to go.
Jordan swallowed and ran her tongue over her teeth. Ew. And she needed her toothbrush. Like right now. She shoved herself off the edge of the bed and stood. She immediately felt the cool air on her legs and looked down.