He says it so casually that my gaze snaps up to his face again, searching his expression to figure out if he’s serious. His eyes hold a level of mischief I want to match, a knowing smile pulling up the corner of his mouth. It’s obvious to him what my answer is going to be.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s have some fun, Prince Charming.”
Chapter 7
Stella
I think I might be dying. Either that, or it’s the hangover from hell.
My eyes aren’t even open, and yet there’s a pounding in my temples from the light seeping through my lids. My stomach churns painfully, still debating whether whatever I consumed in the past twelve hours is going to come up and out. And my feet ache so badly that there’s no way I didn’t do some serious running last night.
When I finally work up the nerve to face the day, I immediately notice I’m not alone. I’m lying next to Thomas in his rumpled bed, the white duvet bunched up under his head like a pillow. I couldn’t say where the actual pillows are, but they’re certainly not up here with us, unlike the assortment of take-out boxes, a half-empty bottle of Maker’s 46, and a wilted bouquet of flowers. It’s quite the array, but I’m too unwell to worry about it.
I don’t even know why I’m stillhere. My entire plan last night was to hook up and then get the hell out of Dodge. Clearly the latter didn’t happen, and another quick assessment of mybody reveals that he definitely didn’t stick his dick anywhere in me. I’m certain of that, because with what I felt through his pants at the strip club, there’s no way I wouldn’t be dealing with the aftermath today.
But if we didn’t have sex, then why am I here when I should be back in my own hotel room with my cheek on a silk pillowcase?
My head throbs and spins, prompting me to close my eyes until I stop feeling like I’m on a rickety rowboat in the middle of the sea. I’m tempted to go back to sleep and pray I won’t feel so spectacularly horrible in a few hours. And I would do it too, if this bed wasn’t so damn uncomfortable. I’m betting that’s what woke me in the first place.
I force my eyes open again to check if there’s one of those take-out boxes underneath me, but as I feel around and pull out a bottle of Tabasco from under my hips, I find something stranger.
I’m wearing clothes. Like, my full outfit from last night—dress, underwear, even a bra if the irritation around my ribs is anything to go by. It’s extremely odd because, one, I wouldneverget into bed wearing my outside clothes. And two, you’d have to pay me a billion dollars to wear a bra for longer than strictly necessary, let alone sleep in one. Even if we did just get drunk and pass out here last night, there’s no way I wouldn’t have whipped that bad boy off the second we stepped inside his suite, whether we were going to have sex or not.
Thomas is also completely dressed. The tux is wrinkled beyond belief, sure, but every element of it is on him, including a very crooked bow tie. He wasn’t even this put-together when we left dinner last night.
“What the fuck,” I croak, loud enough that Thomas’s eyelids flutter.
I’m too scared to move, still not sure if I’m going to puke, especially when he groans and flops over onto his back, causing the mattress to shake. It feels more like an earthquake than the slight tremor it actually is.
“I feel like hell,” he mumbles, voice scratchy from sleep. I might find it sexy if I weren’t too busy fighting to figure out what happened.
He lifts his hands to scrub at his face, bleary gaze finding me when he looks over a moment later. His eyes are unnaturally blue in the morning light, or maybe it’s just because they’re framed by red rims, but either way, they’re beautiful.He’sbeautiful, even while hungover, with his hair sticking up in every direction and a light layer of scruff on his jaw.
When he smiles, my stomach flip-flops in a way I can’t attribute to what I drank last night. It’s easy and personal, the corners of his eyes crinkling just a little. But then he squints at me in confusion, eyes dragging up and down my body before looking at his own.
“Why are we dressed?” he asks.
I blow out a breath and lift a hand to swipe under my right eye, cringing when it comes away covered in mascara. “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me that.”
I go to pull my other arm out from where I have it curled under my head, but something soft and sticky flops onto my face. If I had better control over my body, I might have screamed and batted it away. Right now, all I can do is grunt and slap haphazardly at my face, the scent of a sickly sweet bakery item assaulting my senses.
The offending thing lands between Thomas and me, leaving us staring at…a doughnut. If the chocolate streaks on my pinkie and middle finger are anything to go by, it was on my ring finger before falling off my hand.
This time it’s Thomas’s turn to say, “What the fuck.”
I have so many questions that I’m not even sure where to start. Actually, no, I have so many that I don’t want to ask any of them. I don’t want the answers. Whatever happened is Last Night Stella’s business. This Morning Stella doesn’t want to know what led to her wearing a chocolate-iced doughnut, complete with rainbow sprinkles, like a ring.
“I’m not going to ask,” I finally say when I look at Thomas, and he nods slowly, apparently feeling the same way.
Thankfully, my stomach has settled some, and I assess how the rest of me is holding up. My bladder is dangerously full, and I’m weirdly sticky in various places—gross—but those are things a trip to the bathroom and a long shower can fix. I’m just hoping that whatever’s on me didn’t get in my hair, because I donothave time to get it redone before the wedding.
Oh God,the wedding. A glance at the clock on the bedside table tells me it’s only a little after eight a.m., which means I have a solid six hours to recover before I’m expected to be in Janelle’s suite with a photographer up in our faces. I might have escaped being in the bridal party, but I still promised to be there for her today, and I plan to make good on that oath, even if I have to drag my half-dead ass to her. As long as my parents, my aunts, or any other family members going to the wedding don’t hunt me down before then, I should be able to keep this drunken rendezvous my dirty little secret—especially if Thomas and I agree to never speak to each other again.
It takes an inhuman amount of strength to roll to the side of the bed, and I nearly cheer when I manage the slow trek to the bathroom. I do my best to clean myself up, making myself presentable enough to hopefully do a walk of shame back to my hotel without getting too many concerned looks. I’m not particularly optimistic, though.
Thomas has made it out of bed by the time I leave the bathroom, sitting in the green velvet wingback chair by the doors to the balcony and looking like he might pass out if he has to move any farther. His phone is in his hand, though he glances up when he hears me come in.
“I guess we should talk about what happened last night,” he says, a little stiltedly, like this really isn’t a conversation he wants to be having.
