VANESSA BELMONT JANG
Nathan's arm around my waist was the only thing keeping me from face-planting into the soggy remains of our honeymoon bed. The rum had officially upgraded from "warm buzz" to "why is the ceiling spinning?"
Ollie screamed.
Not the oh-God-we're-going-to-die kind of screaming. No, this was the oh-God-Ollie-found-something-that-will-probably-kill-us variety. High-pitched. Thrilled. His whoops were followed by Leo yelling, "Don't you dare, Oliver Benton King!"
Well, shit.
Nathan and I hurried downstairs.
The living room was—somehow—worse than we'd left it. Ollie was standing on the coffee table waving the coconut around. Holy crap. How much rum did my bestie drink?
Leo was watching his fiance from three feet away.
Probably because of the freaking iguana.
The thing was massive—easily the size of a small dog—and perched on the back of the couch like it owned the place. Its beady eyes locked onto Ollie with what I could only describe as reptilian disdain.
