Max woke up with a pounding headache and the immediate feeling that something was wrong. Very wrong. The ceiling above him wasn't his. Neither were the expensive cream-colored curtains, the unfamiliar hotel suite, or the collection of half-empty champagne glasses littering the nightstand. He groaned, dragging a hand down his face before attempting to sit up. The movement only made his head throb harder. Vegas. Right. Double podium. The celebrations afterward. A lot of drinks. Maybe too many drinks.

Then his eyes landed on the floor.

A dress was tangled amongst discarded clothing. Not just any dress—a short white dress. Beside it sat the tuxedo he'd rented for the evening. Max stared at the items for several long seconds, his stomach dropping lower and lower with every passing moment. Slowly, like he was afraid of what he'd find, he turned his head toward the other side of the bed.

Dior was asleep beside him.

For a moment, his brain completely stopped functioning. His teammate. His biggest headache. The woman he argued with more than anyone else in the paddock. They fought in meetings, fought on track, fought over strategy calls, fought over things that didn't even matter anymore. They couldn't go more than twenty-four hours without irritating each other. Yet there she was, completely knocked out beneath the hotel blankets, looking far too peaceful for someone who had spent the last year threatening to throw a telemetry tablet at his head. Max's eyes dropped to her hand resting on the sheets. A gold ring sat on her finger. His gaze immediately snapped to his own hand. Another ring. The color drained from his face.

"Shit."

The word left him in a horrified whisper as fragmented memories began flooding back. Neon lights. Loud music. Dior laughing at something he'd said. An Elvis impersonator. Someone yelling, "You may kiss the bride!" The marriage certificate sticking halfway out of Dior's designer handbag across the room certainly wasn't helping his case. Max leaned back against the headboard and stared at the ceiling in defeat. In a few hours the entire paddock and maybe even the formula communion was going to know he'd somehow gotten drunk enough to marry the one person on the grid he couldn't stand.