Maybe cliched, accidental marriages happen for a reason…
She moaned as she tried to lift her eyelids. The sunlight streaming through the windows stabbed at her eyes harshly, each ray of light brutally painful. To make matters worse, her head felt as though it was about to split open, and it throbbed as she struggled to sit up in bed.
Her squinted eyes turned to survey her hotel room. It looked as though a mild tornado had hit. Her Vera Wang dress was messily wadded on the couch, her underwear and shoes scattered across the carpet. She furrowed her brow as her eyes landed on a pair of black slacks draped over a chair. She hadn't brought a pair of black slacks with her to Las Vegas…
Her puzzlement receded as she leaned back against the headboard of the bed. She was probably just imagining them—after all, she was obviously still recovering from her hangover from the after party last night. Strange, she could've sworn the couch was supposed to be on the other side of the room though…
A groan under the covers beside her caused her to shriek and scramble out of the bed, pulling the comforter with her. Her head throbbed with the effort.
"I don't know who you are, but get the hell away from me," she threatened, pointing at the tousled form slowly sitting up in the bed.
The figure in the bed groaned, bringing his hands through his brown locks of hair. "Stop screaming, my head hurts like hell." He rubbed his face with a hand. "Just tell me your name, I'll get you an autograph, and we'll pretend like this never happened—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his brown eyes boring into her surprised and horrified green ones. His face grimaced as his brain registered who she was.
"Oh shit," he groaned.
And she screamed again.