Chapter 5 The Morning After

I startle awake with a sharp gasp, my head pounding so hard it feels like someone is repeatedly smashing a hammer against my skull.

What the fuck.

For a few terrifying seconds, my vision blurs completely. Bright morning light filters through dark curtains, and nothing around me looks remotely familiar. The room slowly comes into focus piece by piece—black walls, dark wood floors, expensive furniture, heavy curtains barely letting sunlight inside.

This is definitely not Cara’s bedroom.

Panic starts climbing my spine immediately.

What the hell did I do last night?

Then reality really slams into me.

My cheek is resting against a hard, warm chest.

I freeze completely.

Oh my God.

Slowly—very slowly—I look downward first.

Snake tattoos.

Black ink coils across tan skin, disappearing beneath the blankets and wrapping around muscular arms. His chest rises slowly with every steady breath he takes, completely relaxed while my entire body is seconds away from combusting.

I almost don’t dare look at his face.

But I do anyway.

And holy shit.

Sharp, striking, and almost unfairly handsome in a way that feels dangerous instead of approachable. Strong cheekbones cut beneath lightly tanned skin, giving his face a sculpted appearance that somehow looks even more intimidating while asleep. His jaw is sharp and shadowed with dark stubble, rough enough to make him look older than he probably is.

Messy black hair falls across his forehead in loose waves like he never bothers styling it. It gives him this careless, brooding appearance that fits him way too well.

Then there’s his eyes.

Barely visible while he sleeps, hidden beneath thick dark lashes.

Blue and green.

Heterochromia.

Suddenly a blurry memory crashes into my head.

You’re beautiful.

Oh my God.

Did I say that out loud?

Heat floods my face instantly.

Who the hell is this guy?

And more importantly—

What the hell happened last night?

I try forcing my memory to work.

I remember drinking.

Way too much drinking.

Cara laughing.

Music.

Dancing.

A guy touching me.

Then…

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Panic twists violently in my stomach.

Did this asshole take advantage of my drunk ass?

And where the fuck was Cara?

I suddenly realize something horrifying.

I’m naked.

Completely fucking naked.

My eyes widen so hard they hurt.

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

Please tell me he used protection.

I sneak another glance at him while slowly trying to untangle myself from the sheets. Honestly, if I’m being objective, he’s stupidly attractive. Like unfairly attractive. The kind of guy who probably ruins lives accidentally just by making eye contact.

Part of me almost wishes I remembered whatever happened.

Which is insane.

Because if we did sleep together, that means he took advantage of a drunk girl.

Right?

But then I notice the trash can beside the bed.

The bottled water.

The Advil carefully placed on the nightstand.

My folded clothes sitting neatly on a black leather chair in the corner with my phone and glasses resting on top.

I pause.

Confusion replaces panic little by little.

If he was some creepy asshole, would he really do all this?

What the hell actually happened last night?

And who is he?

I stare at him harder trying to place his face, but nothing clicks. He doesn’t look familiar at all. Which honestly feels impossible because a man looking like that should be memorable.

Carefully, I slide out of the bed.

The room spins slightly the second my feet hit the floor, reminding me exactly how hungover I am. I grab the edge of the mattress until the dizziness settles before quietly pulling on my clothes.

The oversized shirt smells faintly like smoke and alcohol now.

Fantastic.

I keep glancing toward the bed while dressing, half expecting him to wake up at any second.

Please don’t wake up.

I do not want that conversation.

Not now.

Possibly not ever.

As I pull my jeans back on, I glance around the room again.

The entire thing screams him.

Dark. Organized. Brooding.

Black walls with gold detailing near the ceiling. Expensive furniture that somehow still feels masculine instead of pretentious. Computer monitors line one side of the room beside an open laptop covered in coding windows I don’t remotely understand.

Then my attention catches on a painting hanging above the fireplace.

The Brooklyn Bridge.

Black, white, and gold oil paint.

It’s beautiful.

There’s something haunting about it.

For a second, the room doesn’t feel cold anymore. It feels…safe.

Which is ridiculous.

I don’t even know this man.

The smartest thing I can do is leave and pretend none of this ever happened.

Thankfully, I’ll be hiding in the library most of the summer anyway, meaning there’s a good chance I’ll never see him again.

At least that’s the plan.

I slip my phone into my back pocket before turning toward the door.

But right before leaving, I glance back one last time.

Big mistake.

Because stretched across black sheets with tattoos exposed and dark hair falling into his face, he looks unfairly good even while asleep.

Something inside me twists low in my stomach.

A warm, dangerous little pull.

God.

I need to leave.

Now.

I quietly open the bedroom door and slip into the hallway.

Immediately, I realize I have absolutely no idea where I am.

Crap.

A long hallway stretches in both directions lined with expensive paintings and dim wall lights. Everything looks massive and intimidating and rich.

Too rich.

One side of the hallway is shorter, so I head that direction first and finally spot a staircase.

Thank God.

I creep downstairs as quietly as possible, cringing every time the wood creaks beneath my feet. The staircase opens into a massive foyer near the back of the house.

Wait.

The back of the house?

I rush toward the back door and shove it open, practically bolting outside without looking around.

Morning air hits my face as I hurry down the long oval driveway.

Then I spot the dark green Jeep parked near the side entrance.

I do not recognize anything.

But I’m too busy panicking to think harder about it.

I just need to get away before someone sees me.

It takes forever, but eventually I make my way back toward Cara’s house.

By the time I knock on the door, my headache has somehow gotten even worse.

Cara’s mother answers almost immediately.

“Natalie! Honey, Cara isn’t home yet.”

Of course she isn’t.

I force a smile that probably looks more like I’m dying.

“That’s okay,” I mumble. “I need to grab my things?”

“Of course.”

The second I step inside, I head straight for the bathroom.

Hot water pours over me while I stand there replaying every broken memory from last night.

The dancing.

The kissing.

The eyes.

Blue and green.

Heterochromia.

My stomach flips again.

Because somehow, despite the panic and confusion and embarrassment…

Part of me really wants to see him again.

Which is probably the worst decision I could possibly make.

Too bad I already know I’m going to make it anyway.

And after I finish getting dressed, I have an even bigger problem waiting for me.

Time to meet my mother.