Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Behind us, Ira clapped his hands far too cheerfully and started singing, “Another one bites the dust!”
I glared at him. “You’re evil.”
He beamed as he pressed a champagne flute into my hand. “I know. Now, let the celebrations begin.”
Epilogue 1
Gabby
I woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a glitter-covered freight train. The sunlight bleeding through the hotel curtains was too bright, the air too dry, and my mouth felt like it had been used to sandpaper a fence. My head pounded with the steady throb of a bass drum someone had set to “punishment mode,” and every limb on my body was heavy, sore, and confused about where it was.
Groaning, I rolled over, hoping to find a cooler part of the sheets or maybe some water. Instead, I misjudged the edge of the bed entirely and tumbled off with all the grace of a tossed suitcase. I landed hard on the crumpled fabric of my dress from the night before—still tangled and draped across the carpet like it had tried to make a run for it, too.
As I groaned into it and tried to regain my dignity, I heard a crumpling sound beneath me. Blinking through lashes clumped together with yesterday’s mascara, I reached through the layers of my dress and pulled out a stack of papers.
I shuffled through them, trying to recall anything that might make sense of what had happened. My brain was still swimming in leftover alcohol, and everything felt distant—like trying to piece together a dream through static.
Then I found the envelope.
Big, white, and thick, it didn’t look like the other scraps. With a growing sense of unease, I opened it and pulled out a neatly folded certificate with glossy photo prints tucked underneath.
My vision was still blurry, so I moved it closer until the words finally came into focus about an inch from my nose.
Certificate of Marriage.
I blinked. Well, that didn’t make sense.
I squinted at it again, sure it had to belong to Gladys and Ira. Maybe it got mixed up in all the chaos and accidentally ended up in my dress. It made sense. Sort of.
But then I saw my name and Webb’s name printed clearly on it.
I let out a strangled sound. Not a scream, exactly—more like a dying hyena being choked by a feather boa.
“Webb!”
From the bed behind me, his voice came low, amused, and far too awake.
“I was wondering when you’d find that.”
I twisted around so fast that I nearly toppled again. Webb was sprawled across the bed, shirtless and completely at ease, with that infuriating, lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“What the hell is this?” I screeched, holding the paper aloft like it might catch fire in my hand.
He yawned and stretched like a cat. “That's our marriage certificate.”
“I thought this was Gladys and Ira’s!”
He shook his head, still grinning. “Nope, that one’s framed in their suite. This one’s ours. You, me, and…well…Elvis.”
“Elvis?” My voice rose another octave.
“You don’t remember?”
I stared at him, horrified.
“You demanded the full Elvis experience,” he explained, clearly enjoying himself. “Wouldn’t stop dancing in the parking lot until they brought him out. You called him ‘The King’ and asked if he’d sing Hound Dog while we said our vows. He did, and you cried.”
I stared at the certificate, then flipped through the stack of photos, my heart pounding.
There I was, in my navy corset dress and smudged eye makeup, holding a plastic bouquet with toilet paper trailing from my hair like a veil. Webb stood beside me, looking smug and thoroughly amused. Elvis—complete with a rhinestone jumpsuit, sunglasses, and a wig that was 100% slipping—was mid-hip thrust in at least three of the photos.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “We didn’t even get married in a cute little chapel. We got married in a drive-thru by an off-brand Elvis impersonator.”
Webb didn’t even try to hold back his laughter. “Come on, it’s cool. We can say The King married us.”
I dragged myself into a seated position and glared at him over the edge of the bed. “You think this is funny?”
He looked at me, really looked at me, and then burst into a fresh round of laughter. “You look like a raccoon that licked a plug socket.”
I picked up the nearest pillow and hurled it at him, missing by a mile. “You’re dead.”
“Technically,” he drawled, grinning as he caught the pillow, “I’m your husband, so if you kill me, you inherit half of this hotel room.”
Despite the throbbing in my head, the sheer absurdity of it all hit me like a wave—and before I could stop it, I started laughing, too.
Of course we'd gotten married by Elvis in Vegas. This was us: ridiculous, spontaneous, completely out of our minds… and somehow, absolutely right.
I rubbed my temples, staring down at the certificate again, and whispered, “God help me…I married my best friend in a rhinestone drive thru.”