What Happens in Vegas

Summary:

Elizabeth Bennet has her life all mapped out: her own loft in downtown Chicago, a steady boyfriend, and becoming the first female partner at Palmer-Proctor, LLP. But Lizzie's in for a shock: waking up with a hangover and a stunning sparkler on her ring finger after a crazy night in Las Vegas was definitely not in her five-year career plan. And even worse, her new husband is Will Darcy, Head of Litigation at Llewellyn-Gold and the biggest jerk Lizzie's ever met...

(Chapters after prologue will average 3000 words.)

Prologue

Las Vegas 2013

She'd been run over by an eighteen-wheel truck carrying a few tons of cement.

Or, at least, the pounding in Lizzie's head felt very much like that.

At least she wasn't stupid enough to open her eyes immediately upon waking. While her migraine wasn't exactly conducive for her thought processes, it did bring to mind mornings after the frat parties (that she wasn't strictly invited to) and the pain always accompanying the first blinding rays of sunlight. She shifted slightly, intending to roll onto her back – sleeping on her side always gave her a crick in the neck for the rest of the day – and froze.

There was an arm was around her waist.

For that matter, her shoulder was pressed against a warm, solid mass of some sort; slim ankles entangled with what might be a set of lean, muscular calves; and were those lips against her hair?

Lizzie inhaled sharply as an unwanted, unexpected thrill slithered down her back. Then exhaled with relief as she felt fabric over her chest. Still in a camisole and panties – in other words, not naked, and not past third base. Her heartbeat slowed marginally, thudding at almost the same rate as her headache. She wasn't hyperventilating. Lizzie didn't do hyperventilating. Ever.

Gingerly, she slitted her eyes, allowing some sunlight to slowly filter in, before curiosity finally won over dread. Her chin tipped upwards, clipping her companion's collarbone, and she saw his face – and promptly screamed. Loudly. A shriek, really; the windows may or may not have creaked.

A flutter of absurdly long lashes. Then the pair of bleary grey eyes revealed removed all (wonderful, necessary, life-sustaining) doubt.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was sleeping in her bed – and, as her memory inconveniently came crashing upon her like a heap of bricks with lucidity, the man she'd married last night.

The man who she'd sworn she wouldn't marry if he were the last breathing male on the planet.

Well, fuck.