Connor
Igaspedawakewitha stranger’s hand around my throat.
Weight pinned my chest, warm breath fanning my neck.
I gripped the hand, tearing it away from my neck and trying to pull away.
After a soft mumble from the person beside me, the hand slid down to rest on my stomach.
What the fuck?
Long hair stuck to my lips and nose, smelling of citrus and smoke. I turned my head, trying to breathe without choking on it.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I blinked hard, forcing my eyes to adjust to the dawn light filtering through the window.
This was my room, right?
I looked around in the dawn light. I’d been gone a month, so everything had a layer of dust, but nothing was out of place: The Golden Gate Bridge painting my mom gave me hung above the bed. My suit from last night hung in the open closet where I’d left it before crashing. My down comforter…
With someone underneath it.
I tried to piece together last night, rewinding every moment. Victoria’s event at the bar. Closing my tab. Walking home alone. I’d unlocked the apartment, grabbed water, brushed my teeth, went to bed.
Alone.
I knew I’d been alone.
So who the hell was this?
A soft snore vibrated against my jaw. The weight on my chest shifted, and a leg wrapped around my thigh, pinning me further.
I looked down.
Tank top. Bare legs tangled with mine. Long blonde hair everywhere—across my chest, my pillow, tickling my face. In the dim light, I could make out pale skin, the curve of a shoulder, fingernails painted dark against my white undershirt.
A woman.
Okay. A woman in my bed.
Had I blacked out somehow? Forgotten an entire night despite being completely sober?
No. Impossible. I remembered every detail—the perfect Manhattan, the Negroni that had tasted like validation, Victoria’s performance, crying like an idiot in the back of the bar, the napkin Hannah had set down without a word.
I froze.
Carefully, heart still racing, I brushed the hair away from the face pressed against my chest.
Soft pink lips, slightly parted. A small scar near her eyebrow I hadn’t noticed last night. Blonde hair that had looked lighter under the bar lights.
Hannah.
The bartender.
My breath came out shaky, but the panic shifted into something else entirely.
Not a stranger. Not a stalker. Not someone I’d forgotten in an alcohol-induced blackout.
But still—how the hell had she gotten into my bed?
