“Of what?” I grunt. She shrugs in response.
“Of booze? I think a little hair of the dog would help right now. Or maybe the whole damn dog.” She blinks and screws up her face. “I’ve had some hangovers in my time, but Jesus.”
She’s not wrong. My own head feels like someone’s pounding to be let out. Like they left their keys outside my skull, and they need to get them right the fuck now.
“Check the kitchen. There should be a bottle of champagne at all times. Like I ordered.” I take a deep breath. This is fine. Mostly. I’m just naked with a stranger, sporting an ass tattoo, and my maybe-probably hook-up is a morning drinker.
Vegas does shitty things to you.
“Ooh, constant champagne? Fancy. Dom Perignon? I don’t settle for anything else.” She bats her eyelashes at me, over-the-top flirtatious.
And I can’t help it. I laugh. And that gives me a fucking migraine.
“If I were you, I’d settle for a cup of coffee and some Excedrin,” I say, rubbing my head.
“Breakfast of champions. Do you always treat your dates this way?” she drawls, finally wriggling into her black lace panties. I try not to watch that little dance, because my cock is perking up and I don’t need this right now.
“You’re not my date.” I think my skull is about to start melting. I haven’t been hungover like this since sophomore year.
She juts her chin out. “You know, you are definitely the type of guy to completely fuck up an easy score. I mean, a naked woman in your bed? Most guys would be turning on the charm like—” Then she snaps her fingers, a wild light in her eyes. “I got it! Nate! That’s your name.”
“You win the door prize.” I grab my pants from off the lamp.
I can’t help but notice that Julia’s eyes track down my body. She thoughtfully bites her lip—maybe she likes what she sees. I’m a little tempted to turn around, give her a full frontal show. Again, my cock’s at the ready. Fucking stop it, dude. But curvy redheads were always one of my weaknesses. Even when they’re insulting me.
“So. We both must have been crazy bombed last night, right?” Julia says. Her cheeks tinge pink. “Because I’m not really the type of person to wake up all The Lost Weekend, you know?”
“Don’t worry about it. As far as either of us is concerned, this never happened.” Whatever did happen, that is. I kind of want to ask if she remembers, but I also don’t really want to find out.
“Fine. Great.”
Is she being short with me? Was my response not flattering enough for her?
“Well, as they say in old Hollywood, don’t call us. We’ll lose your number and pretend you never existed,” she says.
“They didn’t say that. Did I give you my number?” I grab my phone and flip through the contacts, but nope. Nothing.
Julia rolls her eyes. “Relax, O Anxious One. You shall remain unmolested. At least, you won’t be molested further.” She wrinkles her nose. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the Grey Havens.”
She pulls her shirt on over her purple lacy bra. I’m a little sad to see that go, even as I want to get her out the door.
“Grey Havens. Is that the hotel café?” I ask.
She starts laughing hysterically. She has to lean against the wall, her face flushing pink with exertion. Apparently I’m amusing.
“Oh, I needed that. Humor keeps us all from going insane, you know? See you around, Nate.” She blows an air kiss, and then slips into some impractically tall heels.
We head to the front door, and she spins around, striking a dramatic pose. “Tell me you’ll never forget me,” she says, her head tilted back and one hand flung into the air.
“Bye,” I say, ushering her out and closing the door after her.
I lean my forehead against that door for a second, taking a deep breath. All right. Calm. Under control. First I need to head for the bathroom, to shower and clean off the smell of cheap booze and sweat.
There’s a knock at the door. Shit, she probably forgot something. I open up to find a valet holding an extraordinary bouquet of flowers. And when I say extraordinary, I mean tacky beyond all reason. Brightly colored roses, explosions of baby’s breath, pink and orange tiger lilies sprayed with glitter and rearing up out of the back of the arrangement. There are even miniature blown-glass flowers, bright yellow and neon blue. I rub my eyes and shake my head.
“The wedding venue’s the pavilion. Take it down—”
“Wedding?” The valet blinks at me. Maybe if I close the door on him, it’ll send a message.
“Yeah, Kaufman-Rosenbaum wedding.”
“Nate Wexler?” the kid asks. Oh, fuck. “Delivery. You ordered these last night.”
Of course I did. I stare at the monstrous bouquet, wanting to punch it in its flowery face. “You don’t remember any other spectacularly ridiculous things I did last night, do you?” I grumble as I stand aside and let him in. The valet trots into the living room and deposits the bouquet on the coffee table. He blinks again, a hotel-employed deer in the headlights.
“I just deliver flowers,” he mumbles. I grab my wallet, tip him, and he leaves while I stare at the gargantuan floral display. There’s a card, at least. I grab it and read it.
Julia,
I can’t believe we did that. You’re so fucking sexy.
I actually ordered a floral arrangement and had the florist put that on the card. But that’s not even the worst part. “I can’t believe we did that”? Well, what the flying fuck did we do?
As I stumble into the bathroom, turn on the shower and get in, my mind races. Did we actually fuck? Where did we go last night, and what did we do? Will this pounding headache ever go away?
When the hell did I get a tattoo?
What did we do that I couldn’t believe?
Seriously. What the fuck happened yesterday?