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looked at Jeremy, who had relaxed enough to sit on top of his bed, but was still paying rapt attention. Normally he’d put the blame on his friends for pulling a horrible joke. But this was a little too much, even for their sick and twisted minds.
    “All right, can you just back up a bit?”
    “Sure,” she said, like there was no problem at all. “I got home from my shift, changed, and there was a knock. Skye here was standing on the doorstep. I didn’t know what to make of it, but then she told me she was your wife.”
    No. This wasn’t making any sense.
    Madison went on without pause. “So I was shocked because, really, why would my brother, one of my best friends in the entire world, go and get married and not tell me? Not to mention your slight anal-retentive problem. Anal-retentive people don’t just up and marry strangers in Vegas. I mean, it seemed a little implausible.”
    That was one word for it.
    “So I basically accused her of being a money-grubbing hussy.”
    “Hussy?” Tim nearly choked on the word. Jeremy’s brows raised in surprise. “Uh, squirt, I don’t think anyone uses that word anymore.”
    “Don’t call me that. That was my first thought. I mean, why else would someone track your ugly mug down from Vegas?”
    “Squirt. The story. It’s kinda important.”
    “No problem. But then she said she had no clue how much you won.”
    Entirely plausible, since even Tim didn’t know how much he’d won until he checked his bank account. Thank God for instant wire transfers.
    “Hold on,” Madison said suddenly. Muffled words he couldn’t quite make out, as if she put her hand over the phone. “She wants me to remind you that you were the one who proposed. Not her. Behind a—behind a what?” Her voice was muted, probably covering the receiver with her fingers. Then she said, “She said you proposed behind a potted palm. Among other things. Apparently the place to be is behind a tree.” The dry humor was too obvious to miss. Madison was thoroughly enjoying this.
    Tim had a flash of exactly what they’d been doing in the darkened hallway behind the tree. Hot lips, smooth skin… He shifted on the bed and turned away from Jeremy to readjust his cammie pants. “Yeah, moving on.”
    “Uh huh. So anyway, after hearing that, I figured I needed to get to the bottom of this. So I asked her for some proof. And she produced a license.”
    A license. A fucking license. How drunk had he been? Where the hell had they gotten a marriage license? And who in God’s name would give a marriage license to a drunk ass like him?
    Someone who worked in Vegas. Hell, sober people were probably an anomaly in the office.
    “But I pointed out—and rightly so—that anyone can forge things these days. Photoshop can do miracle works. Anyway, she wasn’t overly pleased with my logic there. I can’t really blame her. I mean, I’d probably punch someone if they accused me of something illegal. Luckily she didn’t take a swing. But she does have pictures.”
    “Pictures?”
    “Yeah, pictures. Hold on a sec, Skye, I get better reception out here. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge.” He heard a door slide open and shut, and he knew she was out on his back patio. “She had a few pictures on her phone. And a few more that she said came from the actual chapel, came with your package apparently, along with the fake bouquet and her veil.” Tim could all but hear the smirk in his sister’s voice. “You guys at the clerk’s office applying, during the wedding, after the ceremony. It’s definitely you, Tim.” Her voice took on a misty, watery sound again. “You look happy. Really happy.”
    Happy? That was one way to describe being so drunk he didn’t even know he was getting married. Yeah, he was happy off his ass. But that wasn’t what his only sister wanted to hear when confronting him about getting married without the family. “Sorry, Madison.”
    “Uh huh. Anyway, I just thought you’d want to