The Do-Over (The Miles High Club #4)(26)

He’s a beautiful specimen of man; there’s no denying it. Large, virile, and playful.

I get what they see in him.

Even after seven hundred drinks, a traffic cone, and kebab-sauce thieving, he still smells good. How, I don’t know.

“Hmm,” he rumbles with his eyes closed. I smile as I watch him.

Pity he’s such a dick.

I’m just too tired to wake him to move him back to his bed. He’s harmless there and isn’t hurting anyone.

I close my eyes and begin to relax.



“Oh no. Oh no . . . oh. No.” A soft moan sounds through the room. “My head.”

“Fuck my life,” Bernadette whispers.

“Waaaattttttteeeeer,” someone whispers in a husky-dry-voice kind of way. “I need water.”

I smile with my eyes still closed. Hell. What a night.

Hungover doesn’t come close.

“It’s so hot, like an oven. Someone open a fucking window or something,” Bodie whispers. “I’m being cooked alive here, man.”

My heavy eyelids slowly open, and the first thing I see is Christopher propped up on his elbow, watching me from his place on the floor. He gives me a cheeky smile. “Morning, Grumps.”

I frown. “What are you doing?”

“You know.” He smirks. “Just admiring the view.”

Who knows what I look like, but it can’t be good.

“I need a swim,” I whisper.

“Yep. I’m coming.” He sits up and then frowns. “Why did I sleep on the floor?”

“You didn’t make it to your bed.”

He frowns as he looks around the room. “Why is there a traffic cone in my bed?”

“You were wearing it as a hat.”

“Hmm.” He looks around as he assesses the damage. “Good night.” He stands and looks down at me. “Let’s go, Grumps.”

“Can you stop calling me Grumps?”

“It’s a term of endearment.”

I roll my eyes. “I have to get changed.” He takes my hands and pulls me up to my feet.

“I’m coming,” Bernadette says.

“Me too,” Bodie chips in. He gets up and hits Basil. “Wake up, we’re going to the beach.”

“Oh fuck.” Basil whimpers as he puts the back of his arm over his face. “I can’t face peopling today.”

“Tough. You’ll feel better once you eat.”

I pull my T-shirt down over my boxer shorts, suddenly feeling exposed. “I need to get my things from my locker.”

“Yeah, me too. Come on.”

I look down at myself. “I can’t walk out into the corridor like this.”

“Nobody’s eyeballs can even focus today. You’re safe.”

“Good point.”

We walk out to the corridor and down to the lockers. “How come our room doesn’t have our lockers in it?”

“Fossils don’t need clothes, apparently,” he mutters dryly as he undoes his bag and rummages through it. “I’m buying a big towel today. I don’t care if I have to throw it out tonight—I am not taking that pissant towel to the beach. I hate the fucker.”

I smirk. “If you hate that damn towel so much, why did you buy it?”

“The wanker from the outdoor store said it was a must-have.”

“I have one, too, although it doesn’t bother me like yours does,” I reply.

“Yeah, well . . .” He keeps looking through his bag. “My particulars are bigger than yours. I need more material.”

I smile. Particulars . . . Where does he come up with this stuff?

Two guys walk down the corridor, and one turns to face me as he walks past, doing a full circle.

“Keep walking,” Christopher mutters dryly.

“Be nice,” I whisper. “My particulars need attention, too, you know.”

He fakes a smile, and then his face drops instantly as he throws a T-shirt back in his bag. “Get dressed.”

I exhale heavily and lean up against my locker. “I really don’t have the energy to even get my bag out.”

“Fuck’s sake, woman, where’s your bag?”

I point to my locker.

“Open it.”

I press in my code, and he drags my backpack out and unzips it. “What are you wearing?” He begins to look through my things. “Why is this bag so messy?”

“I don’t know.” I bend and push him out of the way. “I’m a backpacker. It’s supposed to be messy. Move.”

He stands and leans his head back onto my locker. “I’m fucking dehydrated.” He holds his arms out to look at his veins. They are in full glory and popping out everywhere.

“I wonder why.” I roll my eyes. “Where’s my swimsuit?” I keep looking.

“Seriously,” he whispers angrily. “Hurry the fuck up.”

“You don’t have to wait for me, you know?”

“I actually do. You’re wearing nana pajamas, and they are probably going to kick you out of here.”

“Probably a good thing,” I huff. “Seriously, I’m going to kill Monica.”

“Who’s Monica?”