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Harley June Beaumont had been awake for at least five minutes and still didn't have the guts to move, not even an eyelid. Her head was pounding, her stomach wanted to heave, and the taste in her mouth was disgusting.
The last thing she remembered was being in Las Vegas, toasting her best friend Susan and her new husband, Mike, as they cut their wedding cake. There were a few vague images of a champagne glass that never seemed to empty, throwing streamers and rice, then dancing on a table and looking down at the bald spot on a waiter's head. After that, everything else was a blur.
What she did know was that she needed to go to the bathroom, which meant getting out of bed, which meant she would have to move. And, because she hadn't wet the bed since the age of three, it also meant she was going to have to get up.
Opening her eyelids in minuscule increments, she took a slow, shallow breath. So far, so good. The room looked vaguely familiar. Oh yes, the Las Vegas Motel.
From where she was lying, she could see a sheer mauve dress that had been tossed casually on the back of a chair. One matching shoe was on the table beside it, the other nowhere in sight.
My maid of honor dress ... I think . With a groan, she began to inch toward the side of the bed, wincing as the movement increased the pounding in her temples. When she felt space, she stopped, convinced she had come to the edge. Now it was sit up or die. Her bladder won out. Unwilling to be found dead in a puddle of pee, she got up, consoling herself with the notion that she could always die later.
There was a large pile of bedclothes on the floor at the foot of the bed. She frowned as she sidestepped them, thinking to herself that was why she'd woken up cold, and was halfway to the bathroom before it dawned on her that she was naked. She glanced around the room, wondering where her nightgown had gone, then saw her bra draped over a lampshade and her panties hanging on the doorknob. She winced again.
At least she could be thankful her mother was not present to give her hell.
Harley June's mother, Marcie Lee Beaumont, was a direct descendant of General Robert E. Lee, and according to Marcie, genteel Southern ladies did not sleep in the altogether. But right now, Harley June was sick and a missing nightgown was the least of her worries.
The bathroom tiles were cold beneath her feet and she shivered as she hurried to the commode. As she lifted the lid to sit down, she gasped. There were flowers growing in the water in her toilet!
She leaned a little bit closer, then snorted lightly and fished Susan's bridal bouquet out of the commode before tossing it in the trash. Talk about a lost weekend. All she wanted was to get cleaned up, pack her things and catch the plane back home to Savannah. Later, when she could think without wanting to throw up, she might be willing to pursue the vagaries of her memory, but for now, survival depended on minimal thought and motion.
A couple of minutes later, she stepped into the shower, relishing the warm jets of water sluicing her face and body. Later, as she began to dry off, she glanced toward the full-length mirror on the back of the door and frowned. What little she could see of herself was just like she felt-wet and foggy. Impulsively, she gave the mirror a swipe with her towel, then as she started to turn, caught a glimpse of something red on the left side of her hip. Frowning even more, she dried a larger spot on the mirror and then turned sideways, angling for a better view of her backside.
What came out of her throat was little more than a squeak and was nothing to describe the shock she was feeling at seeing something red and heart-shaped on the left side of her rear.
She stepped closer, peering intently into the mirror only to realize there were words inside the heart. Unable to believe her eyes, she began scrubbing at the spot and then winced and quickly stopped. It was tender! Dropping the towel, she traced the shape with her fingers as her mind accepted the only obvious conclusion.
"Oh. My. God. A tattoo. I have a tattoo." She moved closer, squinting at the heart. The words were backward in the mirror and it took her a few moments to spell them out and then reverse the order of letters.
Junie Loves Sam. "Sam? Who, in the name of all that's holy, is Sam?"
The tone of her voice rose several decibels as reality hit. It didn't matter as much that she didn't know a Sam as it did that the name was on there.
"Sweet Lord ... I have a man's name tattooed on my butt."
She moaned and began rubbing harder at the tattoo, praying that if she scrubbed it enough, it would come off, which of course, it didn't.
"This can't be happening," she moaned, and at that moment, heard the distinct but horrifying sound of someone moving around in her bedroom.
Grabbing the towel she'd discarded, she yanked it up in front of her and started to lock the door when it began to open.
With heart thundering and a scream hovering on her lips, she gasped. Too stunned to cut loose with the scream, she found herself face-to-face with the biggest man she'd ever seen. His shoulders spanned the width of the doorway, his long, muscular legs were firmly planted as he ran a hand through his short, spiky hair. His eyes were a sleepy blue, his smile slightly crooked and apologetic, and his hair was black as coal. His features were strong and regular, although his nose looked as if it had been broken at least once. But it was none of the above that brought the impending scream she'd been holding into fruition as quickly as the fact that he was naked.
Harley cut loose with the scream she'd been saving, then started to beg.
"Oh God ... oh God ... don't hurt me! Please don't hurt me! My purse is in there ... somewhere. Take it! Take everything I've got, just please don't hurt me!"
The man smiled and glanced over his shoulder to the bed she'd recently vacated.
Excerpted from Going To The Chapel by Dixie Sharon Sala
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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