Accidentally Ever After - Special Edition

Take It Off the Menu by Christina Hovland

Saying “I Do” has never been such a mess.

Marlee Medford just got dumped. Yes, things have become ho-hum in her longtime relationship, but she was two days away from walking down the aisle with the man she thought was her forever when he called it off. Convincing herself that they’d be able to reignite their spark once the wedding craziness settled? That was easy. Suddenly finding herself without a fiancé? Not so much. Marlee needs to regain control of her life, and a weekend away with her friends is a solid first step.

One of Denver’s best up-and-coming chefs, perpetual bachelor Eli Howard, isn’t into serious relationships—especially the kind that ends in marriage. As if to prove his point that they aren’t worth the trouble, the wedding he was supposed to be catering just fell apart. Feeling oddly protective of the jilted bride—his little sister’s best friend—his weekend plans now involve a trip to Sin City with her group of friends. But it looks like he had a bit too much fun in Vegas when he wakes up married…wedding night included.

Marlee’s attempts at getting her life back together are failing miserably. Her ex-fiancé is taking the house, her chihuahua is intent on a love affair with Eli’s sneakers, and she’s now accidentally hitched to the guy who can't even say the word marriage. With their quickie annulment denied, Eli and Marlee just have to hang tight until the divorce goes through. It’s just a little divorce amongst friends, what’s the worst that could happen?

Take It Off the Menu is book three of the Mile High Matched series, but stands alone and can be read in any order. If you love a hunky caterer and an accidental marriage then this book is for you! Buy now for a fun, friends-to-lovers romance!

On the Map by Christina Hovland

From USA Today Bestselling Author, Christina Hovland, comes an accidentally married, marriage of convenience, football x popstar romance!

Professional backup singer Maya Mitchell keeps accidentally getting hitched in Sin City. Now, she’s back for her childhood best friend’s celebration and she’s vowed to dodge any new matrimonial chaos. There will be no more surprise ‘I dos,’ even if the margaritas flow and the chapels never close.

Denver's heartthrob and most eligible bachelor, Sloan Steele, loves his single life. He loves it as much as he loves the football field. But, after one scandal too many, his management is tired of playing defense and asks him to take a time-out on the drama.

One chance encounter plus one drunken night equals Maya and Sloan as the city's latest married couple—a blitz neither saw coming. Once the shock settles, they see the opportunity: a marriage is good for Sloan's reputation. Meanwhile, Maya can use the spotlight to launch her solo career. But executing this play perfectly means sticking to the game plan.

No misunderstandings. No expectations. No falling in love.

As their faux-mance deepens, she's scared of losing her heart and he wants to stop playing games. But do they have what it takes to go all the way?

On the Map by Christina Hovland
Chapter One

Maya
Hot damn, I'm back." My great Sin City Time-Out had ended.
I flicked my wrist, popping on a dose of mascara for night number one of the girls' vacation. Hell, I may not have had the best track record with all things Nevada, but if there was one tidbit I’d learned in life—it was to keep trying until I got it right.
I did a lot of trying, since getting it right was more elusive than I'd ever expected.
Someday, I'd move up from being a backup singer to become an a-list headliner, have my own manager, with a career that finally took off. Someday, however, had yet to happen. No matter how hard I tried.
But I was in Vegas to push it forward.
Make it happen and have a kickass weekend of fun.
Tonight, I would attend the engagement party for one of my childhood friends. Bonus, one of his cousins was a big deal in the music industry and, rumor had it, that cousin was slated to be at the party.
That was the main reason I’d broken my exile. Since my last Las Vegas marriage that ended in divorce two years ago, I'd avoided this city.
But I'd done my time away, and now I was ready to roll. A brief ha-cha-cha dance was the only shimmy-hop my gold-sequined tube dress would allow. Oh hells yes, I was ba-a-ack.
I was back, and I looked amazing, so I took that opportunity to prop my cell on a nearby shelf and sing a few bars of Mariah Carey, ensuring I hit a fantastic whistle note.
I checked the reel and then posted to my socials.
I wasn't sure why I kept sending content online when the only ones who interacted were my fellow back-up singers, friends, sisters, and… Mom. Dad would've thrown me a like or two, but he didn't do social media.
"I'm so glad you came home for this." My friend Angela slipped into the room beside me and peered into the mirror. She ran her fingernail along the crease where her lips met in the middle so she could fix the lipstick smudge without having to reapply the whole shebang. The shade of Heartbreak Pink I’d snagged for her at an airport kiosk was the perfect complement to her blond hair and blue eyes.
Angela would say her cheeks were too round, her ass too big, and her skin too pale, but the entire package came together to create an innocent schoolgirl look that was catnip to most members of the male species.
I often reminded her how amazing she was both aesthetically and, more importantly, as a person.
"You know I couldn't miss this," I said.
Angela gave me a look like my martini was missing an olive. Short explanation? The last two times I'd been home, I'd intentionally gotten sloshed and unintentionally gotten married.
What could I say? I used to believe in love at first sight. Turned out that I used to love the idea of love, but I stunk at the actual carry through. I’d realized by this point that love had little to do with long-term relationships. Not for me, anyway.
None of that mattered now, since I was here to make connections.
A connection.
That major connection that would propel me forward and put me on the map.
"Oh, come on." Angela hip bumped me. "You're going to get frown lines. You can't be sad in Vegas. It's not allowed."
"No, I know." I tried not to frown, but the smile felt forced.
"I heard that Jared's fiancée is actually pretty great," Angela said, clearly trying to change the subject.
As happy as I felt for my friend getting engaged and having a party before getting married, I was mildly down that so many of my friends had found their future and lived it, while I remained stuck in the mud, chasing dreams that never came true.
Still a backup singer for those in the spotlight and still very, very single.
Our more responsible friend, Emily—the one with the voice of reason—sauntered into the room.
"Our one rule is… what?" she asked.
No one answered. Not because we didn't know, but the question sounded rhetorical.
"The one rule we set?" Emily paused again, clearly waiting for Angela or me to respond.
Right, so clearly, this wasn't a pretend test. Of course, I knew the rule since I was the reason for the aforementioned rule: don't get lit, get married, or bring husband number three back to the condo.
"No strangers at the house," I replied, mimicking the same tone as Emily. "No one comes home with us. And by us, we're referring to me." I pointed to myself. "Not to worry, I'm here to make connections, not meet a man."
Ahem. However…
That didn't mean I couldn't find a nice palate cleanser from my most recent boyfriend if the opportunity presented itself.
Because that most recent boyfriend of mine? He’d already moved on to Little Miss Perfect.
"I think you should wear your Vegas Bride badge with pride and go for a third husband." Angela finished with her makeup, popping the cap back on her setting spray. "I mean, let's make the trip worth it."
"Cute, but absolutely not," I replied.
There was no way—none—that I would end my twenties with another failed marriage.
If I ever got married again, I wanted a handsome fiancé, lots of chemistry, a four-tier cake, to be married under the stars in the summer, with a jazz band and a pasta bar with six kinds of sauce.
According to the math—since it was already summer—I'd need to be engaged for a minimum of six months to get the full bridal experience. All that to say, my next wedding was at least a year away.
"Third husband. Third husband," Angela chanted.
"On this point, we disagree, Ang,” Emily said.
She wasn't fussing with her makeup because, honestly? She didn't have to.
Emily's tan skin, black hair, and bone structure mirrored what most women desperately tried to achieve through copious amounts of contouring and highlighting. She also stood impressively tall but wasn't afraid to rock stilettos when the occasion called for them.
Occasions like tonight.
I aspired to be more like Emily. A woman ready to flip the calendar on her twenties should have more to show for it than two failed marriages, a job that wasn't totally awful, a kick-ass manicure, and more good hair days than bad.
Emily had the luck in life that would've made me jealous, had I not understood how she worked her tush off to make all that good stuff happen. Case in point? When Jared announced the party plans, Emily jumped to call her uncle about borrowing his condo. Then she wrangled and finagled until she had her girls on an excellent-priced flight, non-stop to Vegas.
Make no mistake: this trip didn't happen to Emily. It happened because of her.
"Maya," Emily said. "I just don't want you to get hurt, that's all."
That was sweet. Really, it was.
"Well, don't worry. I won't bring anyone here, either," Angela said, raising her right hand like she was swearing in to testify.
Angela was queen of the friend zone with men. She was the bomb at the catch and release game, accomplishing it with practiced ease and remarkable skill.
Most guys checked out after a breakup, but not with Angela. With Angela, they stuck around to be her friend.
For real, they called her for advice and everything.
She’d even taught me a few tricks that helped during the annulment and the…uh…divorce. Was it hot in here? My neck was warmer, that's for sure.
"Then it's agreed." Emily snatched her purse and rummaged through, doing her last-minute did-I-get-everything check. "Ready?"
Emily held her hand out, palm down. We both added ours to the stack.
"Ready," everyone said in near unison.
Here's the deal. Emily was a life planner, extreme. But once we roamed wild in Vegas, things went…well…differently. We all believed that the Sin City experience was a helluva lot more fun when the plan came to us, instead of vice versa.
Though I did question that rationale, given my history.
My phone rang. I glanced at the screen.
"Ten bucks says it's her mom," Emily said.
Unfortunately, she wasn't wrong.
"Hi, Mom,” I said, moving to the living room, so the girls didn't have to listen to whatever tear she would go on. "What's up?"
"You're in Nevada," Mom announced, like I didn't know where I was.
"I am." Was I sweating? A little, yes. I…er…hadn't mentioned the trip to my mother.
"You and Nevada are ammonia and bleach." Mom clicked her tongue like she did when she got worried. "This is a bad idea."
I opened my mouth to respond, but Mom got there first. So instead, I distracted myself by mentally rearranging the couch so it would work more functionally with the coffee table. Six inches over, and that coffee table wouldn't be in the flow of foot traffic from the kitchen.
Mom continued talking, but I blocked her out, electing to reconsider the placement of the Elvis figurines instead.
The condo held an entire Elvis collection—from itty bitty dime-sized statues all the way to a life-size art deco bust.
The bust perched on top of one of the Grecian columns near the flat screen. I traced along the pompadour with my index finger instead of focusing on Mom's breakdown of my last Vegas encounter and how it had ended with a divorce. I turned Elvis a few degrees to the left, so he wasn't looking straight in the guest bathroom. The King didn't need to always face the throne. No indeed.
Mom stopped long enough to catch her breath, so I took that as my opportunity to pause and reassure her.
"I promise, I'm going to behave." I had a one-drink maximum, and then I was on club soda for the rest of the night. "I’m here for business." Mostly.
"It's not you I worry about. It's the men who don't respect you," Mom huffed.
"I really don't want to have this conversation right now," I said. Or ever.
"A conversation about the abundance of respect you should demand from the opposite sex?" Mom asked, all baloney innocence.
I didn't like it when Mom threw around the sex word, because it made me itchy all over. But since she brought it up…
“There are times in a woman's life when she simply wants to be respected for the things she's accomplished," I said. "And there are times she'd prefer that respect served with a side of tongue and heavy petting." That was the truth.
This was the problem with my latest ex-boyfriend. The guy was nice as could be and boring as rice cakes both in life and… in bed. Which was why it smarted that he'd been the one to break it off when he met the perfect woman for him. Of course, he'd waited until after I scooted his bedroom furniture around and fit everything where it should go for better energy flow.
That was okay, though; he and his new girlfriend and his bedroom furniture didn't matter. All the history was safely tucked away in my memories, and today was another step toward the future.
Mom let out a deep sigh that implied this conversation was only beginning. "Honey, with all the love in the world, I have to beg you to leave Las Vegas before things… happen."
"Nothing is gonna happen," I assured.
We were going to be late for the party. I didn't want to be late. So I did a bad thing. I pretended I couldn't hear Mom anymore, so she would hang up.
Of course, I knew this was my mom. Mom, who sacrificed for me and was in labor for sixteen hours before I arrived.
She made this point a lot.
But I wouldn't do anything she needed to panic about.
On that note, my little "can't hear you" trick worked, and she hung up. Then I slipped my cell into my purse, grabbed my bolero satin jacket, and turned to get my girls.
Except the front door to the condo was open, and a man stood in the doorway with three oversized suitcases.
My pulse paused. Straight up, it glitched.
I wasn't a screamer, but I made an interestingly surprised meep noise. He didn't seem nefarious, what with all the luggage and the fact he had a key in his hand.
Still, the guy stared at me like I'd grown an extra couple of limbs out of my head. Probably the respect with tongue thing I'd said to Mom. I wouldn't have said that if I'd known I had an audience.
At that point, I should've said something to him. That would've been the logical thing to do when a man dressed in flannel stood there. Instead, I took a step backward. Unfortunately, this caused me to trip on the edge of the rug.
The rug placement was total shit.
Damn, damn, damn, that little trip had me bumping right into the Elvis bust. He tipped forward. I turned to grab him, and his face pressed right on up against my breasts.
Elvis, not the guy at the door.
I made an oomph sound while the ghost of Elvis himself seemed to embody my mother's words, ensuring that things I didn't want to happen would happen. Oh, yes, the King of Rock 'n Roll motorboated my girls and continued to tilt precariously forward.
That plaster Elvis was heavy. Like stupid heavy.
"Help me," I said in a panic, to McFlannel.
Doing my best to get Elvis back on the stand wasn't enough, because he seemed extremely attached to my boobs. The tube top? No longer a great idea.