Paris groaned and forced one eye open by an act of sheer redheaded willpower. Only one eye opened because the other one was stuck shut with a false eyelash. It was hard enough opening the one, because she'd really, really, had too much to drink last night, and it hurt to move her eyelids. She didn't want to try moving the other parts of her body.
What a crappy, stupid way to start the second day of being thirty. Her brain felt like it had cotton balls glue-gunned to the inside of her skull. Come to think of it, the inside of her mouth felt the same way.
A horrid light pierced through a six-inch gap in the hotel curtains. She saw the distorted out-line of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. She knew damn well she wasn't in France; she was in Las Vegas. A fuzzy sort of Vegas at the moment. What had she done last night?
A deep and extreme need arose in her. She needed coffee. Java. Mud. Hot and thick. Right now. For a minute she wondered if room service might just this once read her mind so she wouldn't have to move any more of her body until a nice big cup of hot coffee was within reach.
The horrid light from the window kept glinting into her open eye. Actually it was glinting off something else in the room, causing a sort of disco-ball effect, which only made things worse. Paris wondered if she'd been so stupid as to wear that red sequined dress last night. Sequins made anyone look fat -- and that dress had practically been sprayed on, like Ponytail Barbie's Moonlight Serenade dress. She should throw it out, but sometimes a girl needs to put on red sequins -- like maybe on her thirtieth birthday.
She blinked at the glittering disco light, and her sight focused on a white jacket hanging on the hotel desk chair close by. What the hell had she bought now? She raised her head an inch off the pillow and moved her hand up to the stuck together eye, pulling at the false eyelash. All of that was extremely painful, and her need for coffee increased tenfold. She groaned. She sat up partway and flopped her head forward, a curtain of her own red hair blocking the view. Paris lifted her head slowly and parted the hair curtain, but something got stuck in her long curls. She yanked and freed her hand and looked down to see a very large, square-cut diamond ring on her left hand. When did she buy that?
Her two eyes refocused across the room to that white thing on the chair. It was an Elvisstyle jacket with a big-ass collar and broad shoulders, and it was dancing in the sunlight.
Her eyes moved to the floor below. There sat one pair of men's white cowboy boots, complete with silver cording and silver studs to match.
What the hell had she done this time?
"Good morning, Mrs. Pruitt."
Paris moved her head painfully, quickly, to her right. She sucked in a quick, searing breath and let out an involuntary, long, loud scream, clutching the sheets against her naked breasts and scrabbling herself to the far edge of the bed.
Beside her in the king-size bed was The King himself. Elvis incarnate. His sexy Elvis mouth was smiling at her. He was buck-naked, his head propped on his elbow, a hunk of his wavy black hair curled down on his forehead.
And speaking of hunks, at least he was a hunk a hunka burning love Elvis -- the early years, instead of a hunka big ol' later Elvis.
"Who the hell are you?" Paris croaked. Her voice was still asleep. She wished she were too.
She knew full well she'd gotten herself into this mess, but she needed some facts, fast.
"Now, darlin', that's not the words a man wants to hear from his wife the morning after their wedding."
"Wedding? What wedding?" Paris screeched. She looked down at that big-ass ring on her left...
Welcome to my wacky books! Life is nothing if not humorous, and I find my inspiration for stories in the oddest places. But I do have a serious side, and there are parts of She Woke Up Married which reflect that.
If you or someone you love has had to deal with postpartum depression, please visit my website for a special note.
Most of all, I am having a lifelong romance with old movies.
If my books feel like 1939 black-and-white romantic comedies, then I've done my job. I'm sure you'll find the flavor of many a vintage film in my books. Now if we could make them into musicals, that would be heaven! (Swell up overture here) I love to hear from my readers, so please feel free to write me at P.O. Box 4551, Rolling Bay, WA 98061 or visit www.suzmac.com and contact me via e-mail. Peace, Suzanne Macpherson
