Destiny on Ice (Boys of Winter #1)(13)

Maybe beer isn’t such a good idea, though. It makes me have to pee. Again, like now.

With no one around to help me find my way this time, I’m left to wander on my own. I go down what feels like many halls in my quest to scope out a bathroom.

But I have no luck.

Until, finally, I venture down a hallway I pick at random.

“I don’t know, though,” I say to myself. “This one seems pretty empty.”

As I continue down what feels like an endless corridor, I find myself squeaking out, “Yikes, it sure is dark back here.”

I should probably turn around; this is clearly an off-limits area. But then I come upon a huge room where the hallway ends. I step inside since the door is open.

Holding onto the wall for support, I feel around for a switch. When I find what feels like one, I flip it up.

A lamp flickers to life, illuminating what appears to be a spacious bedroom. There’s a huge bed in the center, some funky black furniture with chrome accents, and lots of windows. There’s also a very masculine-y feel to the room, leading me to conclude it must be the party-thrower’s room. You know, the baseball player.

There are some photos on the walls, and they appear to be sports-oriented, but my feet are killing me far too much to go check them out. I don’t care for baseball, anyway.

I toe off the offending pumps by the door, and then make my way over to the massive bed. Taking a seat on the edge, I rub my poor soles. Seems even large amounts of alcohol can’t silence screaming arches.

Lucky for me, when I look up I spot an ensuite bathroom. “Finally!”

My bladder urges me to go take care of business, even though I’m so sleepy I could pass out right here.

And I might.

But nature calls.

Forcing myself to stand, I stumble to the bathroom. When I’m finished, I’m so out of it that I push my lacy red panties all the way down my legs instead of pulling them up.

“Oops. They go up your legs, goofball. Not down.” Giggling, I add, “Unless you were planning on having some fun.”

Yeah, right, if only.

Sadly, I never found the stunning specimen of man I was eyeing up earlier. My real-life book boyfriend, my Sunflower Eyes, he may as well have been a figment of my imagination.

When I start to tug my panties back up my legs, I lean way too far forward and almost face-plant off the throne. I decide to just leave the damn things on the floor. “Really, why must we wear underwear all the time, anyway?”

Okay, so all the alcohol I’ve consumed has clearly left me befuddled. “Too much to drink,” I mutter as I return to the room and fall back on the big bed.

I’m ready for sleep, but my eyes feel drier than the Sahara desert. My extended-wear contacts need a break. Good thing I brought a case and my glasses. Rolling to my stomach, I feel around in my purse for a contact case and my eyewear. Once I find what I need, I pop out my lenses and put on my glasses.

Scooting up to the top of the bed, I wiggle under what has to be the biggest, softest, puffiest comforter ever.

“Mm, this is nice. I’m jus’ gonna lie here for minute.”

Three seconds later, I’m tossing my glasses onto the stand by the bed. “Maybe make that fifteen minutes.”

I close my eyes and I am out, dead to the world.





Why Do They Always End Up in My Bed?





Around ten o’clock on the night of our awesome party, and after receiving an annoying e-mail that requires me to fly out to Las Vegas tomorrow—for who-the-hell-knows-what reason—I run out of vodka and switch to single-malt scotch. By two in the morning, I am obliterated, stumbling around and searching for my bedroom.

“I think it’s down this way,” I say to myself. And then chuckling at the confusing array of hallways in my place, I add, “No wonder girls get lost in here all the time.”

But since it is my house, I find my bedroom just fine. At least I assume that I do, seeing as when I wake up the next morning it feels like I’m in my bed, all warm and snug under a thick white comforter.

But something’s not right.

I open my eyes and am promptly blinded.

Fuck, why does the morning light streaming in through the window have to be so goddamn bright? Come to think of it, why do I have a big window like that in my bedroom to begin with?

I roll to my back, my head pounding like a woodpecker on crack as I forget all about windows and morning light. I know what the real problem is, anyway. Draping an arm over my achy eyes, I mutter, “Mixing hard liquor, never a good idea.”

“Ugh, I am right there with you, pal,” a feminine voice groans out from next to me.

Wait, what? I don’t recall bringing anyone back to my bed. And what’s with this chick calling me “pal?” Not the term of endearment I’m used to hearing once I get through with ’em.

I sit up abruptly. “What the f*ck? Who the hell are you?”

I receive no answer, as Mystery Woman drifts back to sleep.

Huh, this is a first. Not that there’s a girl in my bed; that’s happened before. What’s weird is that I have absolutely no recollection of nailing this particular one. It’s a real shame too, since she’s hot as hell.

Did I hit that, though, and just can’t remember?

Nah, I don’t think so, seeing as I’m sporting some impressive morning wood.