I didn’t bring people home. Ever. With casual hookups—who I at least remembered meeting before going home—we went to their place, not mine. That way I could leave when I needed to—and I always needed to. Home before midnight, where I could actually sleep.
No sleepovers. No surprises.
But this woman, with her mane of blonde hair spread across my chest? This was definitely not part of the plan.
I shook her shoulder gently. “Um, hi? Ma’am? You’re uh… you’re in my bed.”
She grunted, her hand sliding lower on my stomach, perilously close to my waistband, awakening a different reason for my heart to pump faster.
Shit.I shouldn’t be turned on by a bedroom interloper.
But she’d been gorgeous and sharp-tongued, keeping up with my banter while filling drink tickets. She’d moved behind that bar like a dancer, every motion precise and confident, and I’d spent half the night watching her when I should have been coordinating a grand gesture or relaxing with my friends after an impossible month.
I’d wanted to ask when her shift ended, wanted to walk her home in hopes she’d invite me up. I’d considered writing my number on the bar tab… then bailed after leaving a massive tip, not wanting her to think that I was correlating the gratuity with my expectations—especially on my boss’ black Amex.
So I’d left. Alone. I swear I’d left alone.
And now she was here anyway, warm and soft, her bare arm draped across my stomach where my undershirt had ridden up. Even through my flannel pants, I could feel the heat of her leg over mine.
I’d left hours ago and she’d still been working, that concentrated furrow between her brows as she’d strained a martini.
So how…
The blanket slid lower. Hannah squinted against the dawn light from behind the curtain, lips pouting in that way that made me want to trace them with my thumb. Or my mouth.
I shook her again, trying to ignore my body’s response to her soft whimpers and fluttering eyelids but she didn’t stir.
Shaken, not stirred,I thought, then immediately felt ridiculous.
It was five a.m. so I’d gotten six hours of sleep—more than I’d gotten in weeks. Clearly she needed sleep more than I did.
There was a couch in the living room. I could move her head onto my pillow, tuck the weighted blanket around her, extricate myself from her grip without waking her, and slip out quietly…
And while I was at it, I could stop thinking about how right this felt, or how I’d imagined her in my bed—although none of my fantasies involved this much confusion. Or clothing.
I inched away, carefully sliding my arm out from under her head…
Her eyes flickered open.
Then widened in alarm.
And despite the mystery of her arrival and the violation of my personal space, I couldn’t restrain my flirtatious grin. “What are you doing in my bed, Goldilocks?”
Hannah
10 Hours Earlier
“YoubettermakethatManhattan perfect.” The crisp instruction came from the other side of the bar. Great, another pretentious bro who wanted to mansplain cocktails, even though I’d been mixing them since I was underage. Hell, I started working at this bar under the table before I got my period.
If Donnelly’s had been open, I’d pretend I couldn’t hear him over the crowd always filling the barstools, but Uncle Mike had asked me to come in early for some unexpected event, so I was restocking before dinner service.
I turned slowly to see a thirty-something guy whose dark hair was so heavily styled, the cast looked like a Lego helmet. He wore a quarter-zip sweater over his button down and tie—expensive materials but trying to seem casual, like he’d googled “how poor people dress upstate,” then, after seeing the initial results, added, “no flannel allowed.”
“I know how to make a Manhattan,” I grumbled.
“I didn’t mean to imply…” From behind his glasses, his brown eyes met mine, blinking twice before his pale cheeks flushed a soft rose. He lifted his chin to the redheaded woman pacingon the stage as the piano technician tightened another string. I’d just approached her to ask if she needed a drink, because she looked like she could use something to take the edge off. “She ordered a bourbon Manhattan, right? But when she gets nervous, she forgets that she prefers dry vermouth.”
Oh. He meant ‘perfect,’ as in a 50-50 mix of sweet and dry vermouth, not an indictment on my mixology skills.
