Like hell. “Megan, it matters to me. Do you remember when I asked you?”
“No.” Not a blink, not a waver.
“The wedding?”
“I’m sorry. No.”
Connor stared at her, his mind stalled on the seeming impossibility of what he was hearing. Yeah, she’d obviously had a few too many—they both had. Hell, he’d been hit hard enough where more than a few minutes had been required for the details to shuffle into place, and he probably had at least seventy-five pounds on her...but blacking out?
“Megan,” he started, working to keep the urgency out of his voice. “Exactly how much of last night do you remember?”
“A few minutes here and there.”
Alarm spreading through him like wildfire, he waited for her to say something more. Waited for her to finish her sentence with “seem to be missing.” Only, then the ring was free, being pressed into his palm, wrapped tight beneath fingers Megan had dutifully closed for him. And she was peering up at him, those blue pools searching his eyes for something...anything maybe.
“I remember seeing you at a bar and thinking how handsome you were. I remember laughing...a lot, and at another point, talking over waffles, though about what I couldn’t say except you looked serious then. I remember you joking about us picking out china patterns. And I remember knowing with all certainty you weren’t serious. There weren’t any maybes between us. It simply wasn’t like that.” Her cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink as she looked away. “I remember knowing I should slow down because I don’t really drink much, but ordering another round because I didn’t want the fun to end. And I remember signing my name in the chapel, thinking—God, I don’t even know what. So, I guess, not really thinking at all.”
Connor stared, stunned as she turned away, a flush still blazing in her cheeks even as her shoulders remained straight. The air left his lungs on a hot expletive as he watched her nudge at the decorative pillows and shams littering the floor around the bed with her foot.
No wonder she was treating their marriage like some throwaway Vegas souvenir. This woman had a plan, and she didn’t remember a single one of the reasons Connor had given her for changing it. Hell, she barely remembered him. And yet, she’d somehow managed to hold it together, remaining calm and focused throughout.
She was strong. Tough.
Everything he wanted.
Her mouth pulled to the side. “I don’t suppose you happen to know where I might find my dress?”
Images of that superfine, silky bit of blue hitting him in the face flashed through his mind; only, where the dress went after had been as low a priority then as it was now.
“Megan. I’m sorry. If I’d realized, I would have been telling you everything, trying to fill in the night, explaining what happened. Why didn’t you ask?”
* * *
Closing her eyes, Megan drew a steadying breath.
Why? Because the details weren’t important and she could decipher the broad strokes on her own. This gorgeous, carefree guy had tempted her with all the things she’d sworn she could live without...the attention of a charming, desirable man, the chance to be utterly spontaneous, the indulgence in a night of reckless excess she wouldn’t even consider once she had another person dependent on her. And so her pickled mind had rationalized this one last adventure. Vegas-style.
Maybe her blocking out their time together was some sort of defense mechanism.
Looking at this man alone made her believe whatever happened between them could very well have been the kind of phenomenal a grown woman didn’t recover from, and her inner psyche was simply trying to protect her.
“Megan?” The deep, rich baritone cut into her thoughts an instant before the heat of his hands settled over her shoulders, jolting her back to the now. “Why?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
And then those strong hands were turning her around, gripping her tight. “You’re wrong. I don’t think you understand. Last night wasn’t just some goof to be rectified this morning.”