ONE
“Fuckingchampagne.”
With my eyes squeezed shut, I fumbled with my phone, trying to silence the generic marimba melody blasting through the speakers. My fingers tapped the screen until the room finally fell silent. Well, except for the sound of running water.
I internally sighed. Someone was in the shower. It wouldn’t be like me to wake up alone after a wedding.
The smell of stale booze and sex clawed at my nose,tempting thebile sittingon the back of my tongueto join the party. I was starting to think that a great night out wasn’t worth feeling like a human dumpster fire the next morning.
Taking a deep breath, I sat up, andstars exploded behind my eyelids.I swallowed hard, trying my best not to vomit. Fatigue weighed down my limbs, but I stayed upright. Just barely.
My brain swam inthe remnants of too many champagne toastsasI pressed a palm to my forehead, trying to stop the sloshing. An all too familiar pain thumped in my temples, and no amount of pressure helped with the pain. It felt like the entire wedding party was electric sliding all over my frontal lobe.
Peeling my eyelids open, I tried to ease myself into consciousness.Unfortunately, sunlight blinded me because some asshole had thrown open the curtains.
Thoroughly disgusted with myself, I rubbed my forehead. I’d slept with a morning person, which was, of course, gross and completely unacceptable.
A glance around the room and a whole new wave of nausea turned my stomach.
Crisp white linens covered my legs, navy decorative pillows laid all over the floor, and the furniture was made of dark, sturdy wood. Tasteful art lined the walls, and outside the door, there was a lounge area.
It wasn’t my room. It didn’t even look like I was in the same hotel. My room at the Budget Lodge had some precious country motif.
While it’s never a good thing to wake up in a strange place, I’d made enough questionable turns in life to know how to handle even the most awkward morning afters.
A yawn fought its way out, but my lips stuck to my teeth. My tongue was so dry I had to peel it from the roof of my mouth. I needed a gallon of water pronto.
Adding to my overall discomfort, the AC kicked on,chilling my exposed, clammy skin. A quick scan of the room, and I found my bridesmaid’s dress shredded by the door.
Perfect.
Throwing off the covers, I took a tentative step, my foot crushing the beautiful lace bra that did wonders for my cleavage. Adjusting the underwire and sliding it on, I snagged the giant white dress shirt off the floor. A few buttons were missing, but it covered all the necessary parts—sort of.
In a serious stroke of luck, I shook out the duvet, and my panties fluttered to the floor.I whispered my thanks to the expensive undergarment goddess in the sky that I wouldn’t have to replace another pair.
Walking across the room searching for my shoes, I stopped dead in my tracks in front of the mirror.
Yikes.
Instead of beingcutein a“look at how dainty this man’s shirt makes me look”way, Ilookedlike an Amazon trying to escape Men’s Warehouse. The shirt struggled to cover my bust, the front gaping so that lace and pale skin peeked out if I moved my arms. Tugging at the hem didnothingas it was just as taut on my hips and ass, barely covering my panties. I was sure to flash a few folks the goods during my escape.
If only my ample ass on display was the worst of it. A paper bag on my head would’ve been a vast improvement. The once shiny, bouncy curls laid twisted into something more akin to a flaming rat’s nest. Black sludge had settled under my bloodshot eyes,andthe skin around my lips was stained pink like a kid’sKool-Aidmouth.
“A hot damn mess.”
I tried to rub away the leftover makeup with a few tissues and spit, but it only helped move the mess around and irritate my usually pale, white skin into a splotchy red nightmare.Sighing, I turned from the mirror. Best not to dwell on what can’t be changed.
Raking my fingers through my stiff, knotted hair, I searched for my clutch. Moving as quickly as my upset stomach would let me, I checked the sitting area before heading back to the bedroom. With my head under the bed, I kept feeling around, despite the room spinning.
The water stopped running in the bathroom.
“Hey Sash, you up?”
Startled, I bumped my head on the bed frame. “Son of a bitch.” I gritted out quietly, rubbing the sore spot. I recognized that voice.
Luca Moretti.
Flashes of the previous night rushed back to me—us near the bonfire at the reception with his hands under my skirt, me straddling him in the town car on the way to the hotel, my back pressed against a column in the lobby, me on my knees in the elevator. There wasn’t a place from the reception to the hotel room we hadn’t dirtied up, at least a little bit.