MY HEAD IS POUNDING and I have no idea where I am.
Those are the first things that become clear when I wake up with the hangover from hell in a bed that’s definitely not mine; it’s too big, the comforter isn’t as comfortable, and the pillows aren’t as plump. Not to mention the distinct scent of something unequivocally masculine permeating the air.
With a hearty groan, I force my eyes open, unwelcome light immediately assaulting me until I’m tearing up. I slap a hand over my eyes quickly in an attempt to block out some of the offensive sun, another groan echoing around the room.
A sound that’s met with chuckling.
I almost fall out of the damn bed, almost tripping over my feet in my scramble to get up. Whipping around, my eyes widen at the sight of a man lingering on the other side of the room, lurking in the doorway of what looks like an ensuite bathroom.
A very wet, very half-naked, very hot guy.
It takes all of my willpower not to let my gaze drop to the tattooed chest on full display. Or the gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. No, my eyes remain firmly trained on his face. His beautiful, smirking face.
Fuck my life.
“I think this is the part where you say good morning, querida.”
God. A hot voice to go with a hot body. A very familiar hot voice.
A flick of a memory comes back to me at the sound of it, at the sight of that freaking smirk. A memory of him smirking at me the way he is now on more than one occasion, one of those occasions being whilst I was crumpled on a bathroom floor. His bathroom floor, I’m guessing, the one he’s exiting now. I search my brain for the not-so-stranger’s name but come up blank. The nickname I gave springs to mind but I’m not sure calling him Smart Ass would be wise right now considering I just rolled out of his bed.
“I’m sorry,” I choke on the words. “Who are you?”
Lips that have no business being so full and belonging to a man curl into a playful grin, a mocking arch to his brows. “You don’t remember? I’m hurt.” He takes a step forward, and my head tilts back with the closer proximity because Jesus, the guy is tall. He’s got at least a foot on my diminutive five-foot-two stature. More, probably. “You often spend a night with a man without getting their name?”
He’s got an accent. A hint of something lilting peeks its head out as his low voice teases me. I’m so distracted by the foreign cadence it takes me a second for his words to sink in. When they do, however, they land with a bang. “What?” I splutter, stumbling back a step. “I didn’t… we didn’t… I have-”
Laughter cuts me off, genuinely evil laughter. “I’m fucking with you.” He shakes his head at me, holding out a hand. “Nicolas Silva. Friends call me Nick.”
“Nicolas,” I repeat, not feeling particularly friendly towards the man right now. God, if there was an award for worst first impressions, I think this guy would win. It seems he’s got a penchant for pissing me off.
Nevertheless, I take his hand, trying to ignore the warmth seeping from his to mine and runs all the way up my arm. “Amelia Hanlon.”
Nicolas, Nick, whatever, hums, taking his time shaking my hand in an odd display of formality that contradicts the entirely non-formal way his honey-colored eyes burn into me with an intensity that’s beginning to feel familiar.
When he releases me after a lingering moment, an odd chill tickles my palm. I shove my suddenly icy hand in my pocket, and then I frown; I remember a distinct lack of pockets in the dress I wore last night. Glancing down, my frown deepens.
Gone is my red dress, replaced with a black hoodie that’s not mine. My heels have been replaced with thick, warm socks that my subconscious is already planning to steal. God knows where my bra is but I find solace in the uncomfortable itch of my thong because at least something on my body actually belongs to me. “What the hell am I wearing?”
Nick chuckles again, a soft sound that seems to soothe my aching head, and adopts a shit-eating grin as he folds his arms over his chest. His sculpted, intricately tattooed chest. Such pretty designs sprawl from his chest to his shoulders, down his arms, ending at his wrists like permanent sleeves. An odd urge to step closer and get a better look hits me but luckily, Nick’s voice stops me before I can. “Well, someone decided their dress wasn’t comfortable anymore so someone decided to strip off and run around my house half-naked at the crack of dawn.”
Once fooled, twice shy, I narrow my eyes. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“It took three of us to pin you down and force you into that.”
Terrific.
My hands fly up to shield my scarlet face, the pads of my fingers digging into my eye sockets as though if I press hard enough, the memories of last night might suddenly erase. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I peek through my fingers and catch the amusement glittering in his gaze, fixed on my wrist, fade. “You had a rough night.”
My embarrassment is replaced by confusion. It’s a short-lasting emotion, however, dissipating the moment I lay eyes on what’s captivating Nick’s attention; the ugly, purple bruise snaking its way up my arm. The blood drains from my face as a dam bursts in my mind, memories hitting me like a flood.
Dylan cheating on me. Yelling at me. Grabbing me and hurting me.
Nick swooping in before it got too ugly and kicking Dylan out, I remember him telling me that now.
I also remember drowning my sorrows in a bottle of my best friend, tequila, apparently so effectively, I forgot the whole thing.
Right.
That.
“Are you, uh,” Nick shifts, body tense and awkward, things I don’t think he feels very often if the uncomfortable hunch of his body is anything to go by, “okay?”
“I’m fine.” I force a smile that’s probably as weak and meek as my voice. I hate the sound of it. I hate that Dylan makes me sound like that. Tears sting my eyes but I force them away.
Wait, I tell them. Later.
I clench my fists to stop them from swiping at my slightly damp eyes. “Thank you,” I fumble awkwardly over the words, “for last night.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Nick repeats his earlier sentiment. He shifts again before clearing his throat, jerking a thumb towards the bedroom door. “Your friend’s downstairs. Kate.”
I’m both relieved at the knowledge I wasn’t abandoned and dreading an encounter with my perceptive friend. With a stiff nod and an awkward smile, I skid out of the room as fast as my socked feet will take me, hopefully never to return.
“There she is!”
I grimace as I descend the staircase and am immediately met with a teasing exclamation and an ear-to-ear grin courtesy of my best friend. Perched on one of the three sofas scattered around the living room—haphazardly positioned in a way that screams ‘men live here’—in clothes that aren’t hers, Kate nurses a cup of what I can only pray is freshly brewed coffee, alternating between sipping and smirking. Beside her sits a vaguely familiar blond guy. There’s no point in hoping he’s not one of the ones who had a part in wrangling my drunk ass last night; the wry look on his face says it all.
“Not a word,” I warn as I throw myself on an unoccupied sofa, looking everywhere but directly at the smug duo across from me as I tuck my knees up to my chest, huddling beneath the tent of a hoodie. I’m not in the mood for an interrogation or even conversation. I want to curl up in a ball, close my eyes, and drift into a sleep I don’t wake up from for a couple of years, preferably.
“What, no good morning for Kate’s very pretty friend?”
Wishful thinking, of course.
My cheeks flush with embarrassment as I smile sheepishly at Ben, I remember his name now. I mutter an apology that he waves off. “Having a beautiful girl call me pretty is not something I expect an apology for. Kicking me out of Greenies, however…”
“I’ve been told that was my fault, kid.”
I don’t know why I expected Nick to stay upstairs. I hoped he would, if only for the sake of my sanity. And my poor fire-truck-red cheeks. No, he does the very opposite of what I prayed. He saunters downstairs, taking a brief detour to the kitchen before returning with two mugs of steaming coffee, the smell permeating the air and damn near making me drool. When he hands one to me with an off-balancing wink, I almost forgive his morning, and diner, antics. When he flops down beside me—close since that’s all the two-person sofa will allow—my hackles rise again.
It’s pretty pathetic that my first instinct is to shift away. Not because my bare thigh is crushed against a man I don’t know outside of a couple less than ideal encounters—even if the coffee and the whole hero act last night are redeeming him slightly—but because I’m worried about my boyfriend’s reaction.
Ex-boyfriend.
I’m faintly aware that an official break-up was never proclaimed but I reckon it was implied with the whole ‘touch me again and you’ll regret it’ thing.
Anyway. Ex.
The thought of my ex has me plastering myself against the arm of the sofa lest I hurt, or incur the wrath of, my ex. God, I should freaking climb right on top of Nick in an act of payback. He deserves a little payback, and Nicolas Silva is an excellent candidate.
But no. I cower like a fool for the sake of a man who’s done nothing but hurt me recently.
Freaking conscience.
“Is Lu still here?” I ask in an effort to direct my thoughts to safe territory, sipping my coffee. Black and sweet, the way I like it. In the back of my mind, a small part of me wonders how this relative stranger knows my exact coffee order but I don’t dwell.
Kate jerks her head skywards, brows wiggling suggestively. “Bagged a baseball player.”
As much as that statement piques my interest, something in my chest pangs at the mention of the sport. A whole lot of childhood memories I’ve gone to painstaking efforts to bury revolved around baseball. Nevertheless, I ask, “A baseball player, huh? Which one?”
It’s Ben who answers. “Oscar Jackson. Poor guy’s been pining for your friend for months. Last night was probably the best night of his life.”
Interesting.
Grinning at Kate, I say, “You know what they say about baseball players.”
She grins back. “Good with their hands.”
“Amen.”
“I play too,” Ben chimes in, gaze trained on me. “So does our other roommate. Might be a suitable candidate for that rebound you mentioned.”
My nose wrinkles as I groan, my companions chuckling, and I scramble to keep the subject off me and my embarrassment. “So, Lu stayed the night too?”
I’m surprised, honestly. Lu’s never been one for relationships. Or any minor display of commitment. Or sharing a bed for longer than it takes to secure an orgasm. The girl was downright furious when I got cuffed twenty minutes into freshman year, as she so eloquently put it. When Kate met her girlfriend, she basically threw a tantrum.
‘Relationships in college are as pointless as a fucking circle’ is what she preached to both of us for weeks.
I’m starting to see her point.
“Well, well, well.” As though summoned by the conversation, Luna materializes, wearing nothing but a shirt that grazes the tops of her long legs as she breezes down the stairs. The extremely sated smile on her face shifts to downright devious as she struts towards me. “I heard our Amelia had a very interesting night.”
I extend a leg to boot her in the thigh as she passes, heading for the third sofa. “Could say the same to you, Blondie.”
Luna grins like a Cheshire cat, languishly sprawling on the couch cushions. Last night’s conquest—the infamous Oscar Jackson—isn’t far behind her, shuffling into the room and looking every bit as pleased as Luna, and oh, look at that. It’s another one of the diner boys. The nice one, I note approvingly. A regular, I realize, which makes sense if Ben’s pining theory is to be believed.
He’s not her typical type. He’s a lot leaner than she usually likes them, and I didn’t think long hair was her thing. Full of surprises, our Luna.
Neither Kate nor I can hide our shock when he—Jackson, the boys greet him as—scoops Luna up, takes her seat, and sets her down in his lap, and our friend doesn’t utter a word of protest. She settles into him, shooting us both a glare that screams ‘shut the fuck up or I’ll throw a tantrum again.’ Wisely, we listen.
When she’s satisfied with our silence, she hums with a smile, and I smell trouble before her mouth even opens. “So,” she directs her glittering gaze in my direction, “how’s the single life treating you?”
“Luna…” Kate warns, reaching over to pinch our friend on the thigh.
“I’m proud of you, you know.” Batting Kate’s hand away, she ignores her warning, instead playing with fire by stealing her coffee. Through a lengthy, smug sip, she continues, “That jackass needed to be dumped a long time ago.”
Nick grumbles something beside me, the specifics of it drowned out by Luna as she continues her rambling, her long, long list of everything wrong with Dylan, and why I should’ve kicked him to the curb sooner.
I’m almost grateful when the front door opens, an interruption to her rant. That is until a voice rings out and the urge to sink into the ground that’s been plaguing me all morning ramps up a notch. “Hey, what’s this I hear about some girl running around naked at 4AM?”
Kill me. Kill me now.
Against my better judgment, I peek over my shoulder at the latest man responsible for my glowing cheeks as he hangs his keys off the hook next to the door—the last roommate, presumably. He’s tall, as every occupant of this house seems to be, with light brown skin and black curls cut close to his scalp. My brain itches at the sight, his side profile maddeningly familiar.
When he turns to face me, warm brown eyes locking with mine and mimicking their widening, I almost fall off the sofa. “Oh my God, Cassie?”
