Jasper Vale (The Edens)

The rustle of clothes being shoved into a suitcase filled the hotel bedroom. Then came the pad of bare feet as Eloise tiptoed to the bathroom. Seconds later, she tiptoed back. Then came a muffled plop, probably her toiletry case joining her clothes. That was followed by the click of a zipper, every notch joined so slowly it was painful to hear.

My wife was sneaking out.

My wife.

I fought the urge to curse into my pillow. My head was spinning. The headache throbbing behind my temples was less from last night’s alcohol and more from this morning’s situation.

But I didn’t dare move. I lay completely still, my breaths shallow and nearly silent.

Eloise thought I was still asleep. We’d keep it that way. For now. Until I knew how to fix this.

What the hell had I been thinking?

I’d married Eloise. Married.

That word had been bouncing through my brain for hours. Hours I should have spent sleeping.

Except I hadn’t slept for more than a few minutes at a time last night. Every time I’d drift off, Eloise would curl into my side or snuggle against my back. I’d spent most of last night pushing her back to the opposite side of the bed. But each time I’d shifted away, she’d followed.

A cuddler. Of course I’d marry a woman who cuddled.

I loathed cuddling.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

My head pounded with each silent curse. Of all the stupid decisions I’d made in life, last night’s was by far the dumbest.

Eloise padded to the bathroom again, closing herself inside before she flipped on the light.

As I cracked my eyes open, a glow escaped from beneath the door. The faucet turned on so I shifted, burying my face in the pillow, and let out a groan.

Could this be more of a disaster?

For about an hour last night, I’d contemplated sneaking out while she’d been asleep to delay the inevitable, awkward conversation about unraveling this mess. Except the damage was done. This wasn’t some random woman I’d fucked last night.

This was Eloise.

So I’d stayed. I’d cuddled.

Hell. Foster was going to skin me alive. I was a dead man for marrying Talia’s sister. What if I just didn’t go back to Montana? If I hid out in Vegas for the next decade, would he forgive me?

Tempting. So goddamn tempting.

Just like Eloise.

The light clicked off in the bathroom. I closed my eyes, once more feigning sleep like a goddamn coward. The door swept open almost silently except for a slight creak in the hinge. Then her bare feet crossed the room once more.

Another zipper. Another rustle.

An annulment. That was the answer.

Maybe I’d get lucky and Eloise would agree to keeping this shit show between us. No one really needed to know we’d gotten married, right? We could just deal with it on the sly.

Sort of like how she was trying to sneak out.

If she wanted to disappear this morning, I was going to let her. The annulment conversation could wait until I got back to Montana.

The sound of traffic, of the city stirring, hummed in the background. Muted light crept through the windows. Too busy stripping each other naked, we’d forgotten to close the blinds when we’d stumbled into the room last night.

We’d fucked. Hard. Bare. My cock stirred to life beneath the sheets. It had been a long, long time since I’d gone without a condom, but when Eloise had told me she was on birth control and it had been a while, well . . . I’d broken my own rule about protection. It had been a while for me too.

Eloise had met my passion with her own. There’d been nothing soft or gentle. We’d clawed at each other, rough and wild. It was the best sex I’d had in, well . . . a long damn time.

Why couldn’t I have just screwed her? Why had I taken her to that fucking chapel?

Too far. I’d pushed much too far.

She wouldn’t want to stay married, would she? Eloise had to know that this wasn’t serious. That this was a drunken mistake.

She moved again, and even with my eyes closed, I felt her come close. Her feet, barely a whisper on the hotel room carpet, stopped beside the bed. The air shifted as Eloise crouched down.

I opened my eyes.

And saw blue.

Heart-stopping blue. Exquisite blue.

Her gaze was the color of sapphires. The cobalt of dawn. The azure of the hottest flame.

I’d gotten lost in that blue last night. First beside the Bellagio fountain. Then in this very bed.

We stared at each other, the weight of what we’d done settling between us like a ton of bricks.

Eloise’s beautiful face was etched with regret. She opened her mouth, about to say something, but a knock came at the door. She jerked, nearly falling to her ass.

I shot out a hand, grabbing hers to keep her upright.

Eloise’s gaze locked on my grip. Her fingers tightened, for just a moment, then she shook me loose. She held up a finger and pressed it to her lips.

Shh.

So she did want to keep me a secret.

Why did that burn? Wasn’t that what I wanted too—needed too?

“Are you about ready to go?” Lyla called from beyond the closed door.

“Be right there,” Eloise answered, but she didn’t make a move for the door. She stayed crouched beside me for a long heartbeat, like she was trying to figure out what to say.

That made two of us.

“We’re going to be late,” Lyla said.

Eloise’s shoulders fell. “One sec.”

Then she gave me a sad smile before she mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

Like this was her fault.

Why should she be sorry? It had been my idea. I’d been the one to hail us a cab. I’d been the one to direct the driver to the chapel. I’d been the one to rush inside, just before the midnight cutoff, and ask for a marriage license.

Me.

This whole fucking catastrophe rested firmly on my shoulders.

All because Eloise had told me that story about her horse drawing.

Damn it to hell. She wasn’t the one who should be apologizing. But before I could say a word, she was gone, rushing to the corner.

She pulled on a pair of tennis shoes, then swept up the carry-on suitcase she’d packed, extending the handle. Its sharp click was like a jab to the rib cage.

I shifted, lying flat on my back, quickly tugging the covers to my chin, hoping to hide from Lyla. Then I stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows shift as Eloise eased the door open just enough to slip out.

“Ready.” Eloise’s attempt at chipper came out forced. Too bright and too loud.

“Why are you yelling?” Lyla grumbled. “I’m hungover. Are you?”

“Um, yeah. Let’s go.”

The wheels of their luggage faded as they were dragged through the suite’s common room. Then the exterior door slammed closed, leaving me alone.

Foster had gotten this suite for Eloise and Lyla. He’d made sure that Talia hadn’t had to sit alone during last night’s fight. He’d told me all about this surprise for Talia. Not once as he’d explained the logistics had I thought I’d be sleeping in the room he’d reserved for them.

“Son of a bitch.” I rolled to my stomach, burying my nose in the sheets.

Eloise’s perfume clung to the cotton. Vanilla with an earthy depth. Floral but spicy, almost like a man’s cologne. Except it was entirely female. Entirely Eloise.

The only good thing about her sleeping so close had been that smell. That, and my bride’s naked body pressed against my own.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I pushed up on my elbows, twisting to a seat. The sheet was tangled around my legs, covering me to the waist. I dragged both hands through my hair, rubbing my eyes and the ache in my skull. Then I looked to the window, to the dawn creeping over the desert.

How could I have let this happen? How could I have taken it so far? Of all the spontaneous things to do in Vegas, why marriage?

What now?

Eloise was on her way back to Montana.

I’d planned to stay in Vegas for a while. Now that Foster’s fight was over, he’d take a break from training. He’d spend time with Talia and his daughter, Kadence. There was nothing waiting for me in Montana except a rented A-frame cabin and snow.

Since snow and I didn’t exactly get along well, I’d thought a month in Nevada might be a welcome change. That it would give Foster some time to figure out his next move.

He’d mentioned retirement, and as much as I’d hate to lose my time with him, I wouldn’t blame him for hanging it up. He’d had an incredible career with the UFC. I was honored to be a small part of that journey.

But if he did decide to stop fighting, then I had some decisions to make. Return to Vegas? Train another fighter? Try somewhere new? It was a lot easier to think when winter wasn’t trying to freeze my balls off.

Except I couldn’t exactly stay in Vegas for too long now, could I? Eloise and I had a problem to solve.

And I didn’t even have her phone number.

“Shit.” My fist hammered into the mattress at my side. How could I have been so stupid?

With a quick yank, the sheet ripped free from my legs. I stood from the bed, prowling to the bathroom. I eyed the shower, about to turn on the spray, but changed directions, returning to the bedroom to collect my clothes strewn across the floor.

Eloise’s scent, still clinging to my skin, would be my punishment today. A reminder of the epic mistake I’d made last night.

I tugged on my boxers and jeans, then pulled on last night’s T-shirt. The shirt I’d taken off beside the fountain all because Eloise had wanted to see me without it on.

Who took off their shirt in public? Hell, if she had asked me to strip out of my jeans, I would have done it.

There was a reason I didn’t drink.

Drunk, I was a fucking idiot.

“Ugh.” I rubbed my hands over my face, like that could turn back time. Erase this humiliation.

When was the last time I’d been embarrassed? Years. The last time I’d felt like this it had also been because of a woman.

But Eloise wasn’t to blame for the icky feeling creeping beneath my skin. No, that was all on me.

I needed to get the fuck out of this hotel room.

I needed to get the hell off the strip.

I needed to never drink tequila again.

Eloise and I had both been drunk. Not blackout drunk. Not slurring, sloppy drunk. No, we’d been the dangerous kind of drunk, the kind when you thought you were still in control. When inhibitions were low and courage was high. When you were foolish enough to believe a wild, reckless idea was the challenge of a lifetime.

“Fucking tequila.”

With my shoes on, I left the room, digging my wallet from my jeans pocket. Then I took the elevator down two floors, rushing to my own hotel room. The bed was made, its white sheets crisp and undisturbed from yesterday’s housekeeping.

I owned a house an hour from here, but Foster had wanted us all close to the strip for the fight, so he’d reserved me a room. Maybe I should have insisted on sleeping in my own damn bed. Then I wouldn’t have gone to the club last night. I wouldn’t have been anywhere near Eloise Eden.

My backpack was on a chair in the corner, so I hurried to pack it up, shoving my clothes and toiletries inside. Then I slung it over a shoulder and left the hotel, walking through the lobby to the main exit.

There were cabs waiting, but I passed them, needing to walk for a while before going home. To burn off some energy. To think.

The morning air was fresh. Crisp and cool. I drew in a long breath, smelling the water they’d used this morning to hose down the entrance. The concrete was still damp in a few places untouched by the sun. Clean, for now. Someone would probably puke on it later.

Nothing ever really stayed clean.

Especially in Vegas.

That had always been part of Vegas’s appeal. No matter how many sparkling, neon bulbs they added to the strip, there was always some dirt. Grit, like the sand that waited beyond the city’s borders.

People here flaunted their fake. There was freedom to be gaudy and loud. Judgment was loosened, usually by alcohol.

Last night was the ultimate example of Vegas’s poison. Eloise, a pure, beautiful woman, had been corrupted by Sin City. Tainted by a man whose demons had come out to play.

With my chin down, I kept my gaze locked on the sidewalk as I headed toward Las Vegas Boulevard. Left would take me to the Bellagio fountain.

I turned right.

Not a chance I could face that fountain this morning. With no destination in mind other than away, I walked, my hands tucked in my pockets.

Block after block, I waited for the pressure in my chest to lighten. Exercise had always been my outlet. My refuge. Except the tension in my shoulders, the pit in my stomach, seemed to grow with every step.

That’s when I looked up.

And realized this path I was walking was familiar.

“For fuck’s sake, Vale.”

I should have taken a left and faced that fountain. Apparently my feet had developed a mind of their own. And this morning, they wanted to return to the scene of last night’s crime.

The small, square building was out of place against the backdrop of sprawling casinos and massive towers. It was too charming. Too real. It belonged anywhere else.

But that was another part of Vegas’s appeal. This city welcomed all shapes and sizes. A couple could get married by Elvis beneath the glow of neon lights at a chapel that offered ninety-nine-dollar weekday specials. Or they could come here.

The Clover Chapel.

The white stucco walls were dotted with intricate, stained glass windows. Their blues and greens caught the morning light. A steeple with a brass bell sat atop the peaked roof. Vines with dainty flowers climbed the structure.

The pale wooden doors were marked with a small four-leaf clover tacked above the threshold. At my rental in Montana, there was a horseshoe in that spot instead.

Maybe if I believed in luck, maybe if I’d ever been lucky, I would have appreciated those symbols.

The chapel was closed now. Clover herself was probably at home, rolling in the cash I’d paid last night. The Clover Chapel didn’t do ninety-nine-dollar specials, certainly not for last-minute walk-ins only minutes before closing.

But you paid for their ambience.

You paid for the wisteria blooms that filled the open ceiling. They charged a premium for guests wanting to get married beneath a pergola teeming with glittering twigs, fairy lights, greenery and magnolia flowers. For the aisle lined with short, wooden pews to make you feel like you weren’t getting married in Las Vegas but in some quaint country church, surrounded by beloved guests.

Of all the places in the world, why would I come here again?

The ugly horse.

I’d brought Eloise here because of the story she’d told me about that ugly horse drawing.

She’d created such a vivid picture with that tale. Of her as an angry child, painting over a sketch so she could give her dad the card he wanted. I could picture her as a kid, desperate to please her father and surrounded by her shredded attempts at a birthday card. Then her again, smiling and happy, her skin marred with every shade of paint as she flipped off the idea of perfection.

That was why I’d brought her here last night.

She wasn’t the only one who wanted to take something ugly, something lacking, something painful, and cover it up with something beautiful.

“Pretty chapel, isn’t it?” A woman walking a chihuahua on a sparkly pink leash passed by. Her rainbow iridescent visor matched the dog’s collar.

I nodded, waiting for her to leave. Then I focused on the building again.

An ugly horse.

Covered in vibrant paint.

Yeah, this was a pretty chapel. I’d thought so the last time I’d been here.

The first time I’d gotten married in Las Vegas.