HOW TO ACCIDENTALLY GET A HUSBAND - PART TWO: The Bet and the Blur

 

Delaney’s convinced this is all one big mistake—until Nate starts filling in the blanks. One bet. Two too many shots. And a dare that ended with “I do.” He remembers every second. She remembers… glitter and a plastic bouquet. Now he’s offering her a deal: give their accidental marriage a shot—for thirty days.

She should say no.

Instead? She says yes… again.

Part Two: The Bet and the Blur

When a dare turns into a vow… and she can’t remember making it.

I’m pacing.

Again.

Back and forth across the hotel suite floor like a malfunctioning Roomba, muttering to myself as I try not to throw up from the combination of nerves and leftover tequila in my bloodstream.

Nate, my husband, apparently, is sitting calmly on the couch, sipping coffee like this is the most normal morning of his life.

He has the nerve to cross one ankle over his knee, like we’re a couple who brunch together every Sunday and not total strangers who accidentally tied the knot in Sin City twelve hours ago.

I spin around to face him. “How did this happen?”

He sets his mug down, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Easy, killer. You made a bet, I called it, and next thing I know, we’re in a chapel.”

I gape. “That’s not an answer!”

He smiles like this is the most fun he’s had all morning. “You even gave me your name. Delaney, right?”

I pause. “…Yeah.”

“I’m Nate.” He offers a lazy salute. “Your husband. For now.”

“Oh my God,” I mutter, dragging my hands down my face. “I married a stranger named Nate.”

“Stranger?” he echoes, mock-offended. “That hurts, Mrs. Carter.”

My voice comes out sharp, almost shrill. “This can’t be happening.”

“Pretty sure it did. Chapel, vows, rings, and if memory serves, one too many shots of fireball beforehand…”

“Nate.”

“Delaney.”

I glare. “This is serious.”

“I’m aware.” He gestures toward me with his mug. “You’re still wearing my shirt, by the way. Not that I’m complaining.”

The oversized button-down hangs off one shoulder, smelling faintly of cologne and not that I’ll admit it, amazing. It’s soft, warm, and unfortunately comforting.

I look down and tug the hem instinctively, cheeks burning. “That’s not the point.”

“No, the point is—” he says, setting his cup down, “—you made a bet.”

I blink. “I did not.”

“You did.”

“I don’t bet. I’m not the betting type.”

He grins. “You were last night.”

“Right after your third shot, you announced you were ‘a spicy risk-taker now’ and challenged three strangers to a dance-off.”

“Oh my god,” I whisper, clutching my head. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“Wish I could.”

He leans back against the couch cushions like he has all the time in the world, then tilts his head, eyes skating over me in a way that makes it really hard to remember I’m supposed to be angry. “You want the full rundown?”

“No. Yes. I—ugh. Just… tell me what happened.”

“Okay, if you insist. The bar was too loud, music thumping, lights pulsing, people laughing like they hadn’t had a bad day in years. You were perched on a velvet barstool, kicking your heels against the bottom rung and laughing so hard I couldn’t stop watching you. Your cheeks were flushed, your hair a little wild, and you looked like you owned the damn city. Like Vegas had given you permission to be reckless, and you weren’t wasting it.

I was standing beside you, one hand on the bar, the other hovering dangerously close to the small of your back. You turned to me, glass in hand, and said, ‘So you’re telling me you’ve never done karaoke?’

I told you no, and you looked personally offended. Then I clarified, said I’d never lost a bet that resulted in karaoke. You called that boring. I called you dramatic. You narrowed your eyes and told me I was calling you entertaining.

You weren’t wrong.

We did a shot. Then two more. Someone at the next table started a round of truth or dare, and your face lit up. I asked if you were in. You rolled your eyes and said you weren’t twelve, but then gave in—‘Fine. One round.’ Like you were doing me a favor.

By the end of two turns, you’d belted out a line from a Spice Girls song and danced with a stranger in a cowboy hat. And I… Well, I couldn’t take my eyes off you.

Then it was my turn. I looked at you, all flushed and full of fire, and asked, ‘Truth or dare?”’

You didn’t even hesitate. ‘Dare.’

I smirked, thinking I’d come up with something ridiculous, but before I could open my mouth, you pointed a finger at me, nearly falling off your stool, and slurred, ‘I dare you to marry me.’

I laughed. I thought you were joking. Hell, I hoped you were joking. But then you stood up, wobbling a little, chin raised like you’d just thrown down a royal flush.

“Come on,” you said, grabbing my hand. ‘Let’s go.’

I asked if you were serious.

You grinned and said, ‘I’m always serious.

Next thing I knew, we were stumbling down the Strip, hand in hand, while a woman in a feather boa screamed congratulations and an Elvis impersonator held open the chapel doors.

You grabbed the nearest set of plastic rings from a vending machine by the door, slid one onto your finger, and slurred, ‘Let’s do this before you chicken out.’

I laughed, half in shock, half in awe, and you said, ‘I do,’ just before the lights blurred and Elvis pronounced us legally insane.

And me? I said ‘I do,’ too.”

I press my hands to my cheeks.

“Oh my god. I proposed.”

He nods, smug. “You did. Right after grabbing my ass in front of a very confused minister.”

I groan and sink onto the armrest of the couch, my entire body folding in on itself. “This is a disaster.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Or it’s the best story you’ll ever tell.”

I shoot him a look. “No. The best story would’ve been narrowly avoiding a bad decision in Vegas and going home with a killer hangover.”

“But then you wouldn’t have met me,” he says, mock-offended.

“I met you yesterday.”

“And married me last night. Really leaning into the fast lane, huh?”

“I don’t even know your middle name!”

“It’s Carter.”

“Of course it is,” I mutter. “Nate Carter Carter.”

He laughs. “Nathaniel Carter Wells, actually.”

I blink. “Wells. Wait. That sounds familiar.”

“You might’ve Googled me last night.”

“Did I?”

He pulls out his phone, scrolling for a second before flashing the screen.

It’s a selfie. Of the two of us. Outside the chapel. I’m holding my heels in one hand and flashing a ring with the other. He’s beaming like he won the damn lottery.

I stare. “I look… happy.”

“You were.”

“And drunk.”

He grins. “Also true.”

Silence stretches between us for a moment before I say, “We need an annulment.”

He leans back. “You’re not even curious?”

“About what?”

“About what it’d be like… if we didn’t rush into ending this?”

I gape at him. “Are you saying you don’t want an annulment?”

He shrugs. “I’m saying you’re funny and hot and smart, and maybe I’d like to know what it’s like being your husband when we’re both sober.”

I blink.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he says, standing. “Give me one day. Be my wife for one day. Let me prove this isn’t just tequila and bad decisions.”

“Or better yet… give me a month. Be my wife for thirty days. If you still want out after that, I’ll sign whatever papers you want.”

“And if I say no?”

He smiles. “Then I’ll call the lawyer myself.”

I hesitate, torn between reason and the fact that I’m still wearing his shirt and secretly kind of like it.

“This is insane,” I mutter.

Nate grabs the hotel phone. “Room service? Yes, hi. We’ll have pancakes, bacon, coffee… and extra syrup.”

I stare. “Seriously?”

He winks. “Not yet.”

To be continued… Come back tomorrow for Part Three.

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

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First Edition: August 2025

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