After three years of trading barbs with Professor Hank Talbot, I should have been immune to his insults, but the handsome, arrogant playboy knew exactly how to push my buttons. But when he told our colleagues my idea of a good time was staying home to organize my sock drawer, I’d had enough. He wanted to see me let loose? Fine. Challenge accepted. From dive bars to dance clubs, that night we hit up the best that Sin City had to offer—including a stop at Elvis’s little white wedding chapel. That’s right, folks. Hank and I got drunk in Las Vegas and then we got hitched. Talk about a cliché. But what was even more surprising than accidentally marrying the man I hated most in the world was realizing it might not be a mistake after all.