Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(62)
My stomach churns with the horrible possibilities, and I immediately start recounting how many glasses of champagne I consumed at the party.
One…
Two…
But when I stop counting at three, I’m incredibly confused. No way three glasses of champagne would get me so messed up I don’t remember anything.
I glance around the room some more, trying to find little hints of the owner of this unfamiliar bedroom. White comforter. White sheets. Gray walls. A walk-in closet that sits on the far end of the room and appears to connect to an even larger master bathroom.
This room is luxury and serenity, all wrapped up into one expensive price tag.
When I spot what look to be male-sized boots peeking out from behind the walk-in closet threshold, my stomach drops toward my feet even further. Unless I met a female friend with freakishly large feet last night and she let me crash at her place, I did, in fact, go home with someone. A male someone.
Oh sweet baby Jesus and all the saints.
I scour through my memories of last night and try to pinpoint where it all went wrong, but I’m interrupted by the sounds of footsteps moving from an unknown location and directly toward me.
Instantly, my breath gets trapped in my lungs, and my heart pounds in my throat.
One step after the other, the soft footsteps get closer, and I grip the comforter and sheets tighter to my chest in anticipation.
Good God, what have I done? And more importantly, who have I done it with?
But when grayish-blue eyes, a firm jaw, and sexy, sleep-ruffled hair appear through the doorway, my jaw decides to try to unhinge itself from my face.
I’m in Andrew Watson’s freaking bedroom?
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“What the fuck?” The words shoot past my lips before I can think twice about them.
“Well, good morning to you too, sweetheart,” he says, his voice neutral and a stupid albeit soft grin sitting on his lips.
I just stare at him.
In a leisurely stride, he walks over to the nightstand beside me and sets down a glass of orange juice and a few red pills. “I figured you might be feeling a little hungover, so here’s some sugar and acid to help your stomach and a few ibuprofen to help your head.”
Obviously, I appreciate the kind gesture, but I think it goes without saying I’m a little more focused on figuring out why I am in his bed…naked.
I open my mouth, ready to ask him just that, but he’s quick to chime in.
“Before you get all pissy and start reading me the riot act, you need to know a few things.”
I quirk a brow. “I hope those things include an explanation of how in the hell I ended up here. In what I’m assuming is your freaking bed.”
“You are, in fact, in my bed.” He grins again. “And you had quite the night last night.”
“Quite the night?” I question. “What does that even mean?”
Clearly, I want to know how I ended up at his place, but also, I’m kind of terrified to really know. I mean, what if we had sex last night? Please, for the love of everything, tell me I didn’t sleep with Andrew Watson last night. That was rule number one on a list that only had one damn rule!
“Did we…did we…?” I pause, completely unable to even get the rest of the question past my lips, and a whisper of a chuckle escapes his throat.
I kind of expect him to taunt me for a while, hold the knowledge of everything I can’t remember over my head, but he’s forthcoming with surprising swiftness.
“If you’re wondering if we had sex last night, the answer is no, we did not. But you did manage to get a little wild.”
“Wild?” I repeat. “You’re going to have to elaborate a little more on that.”
“You ate a brownie last night.”
“A brownie? That doesn’t sound so—” Oh my God! Vivid memories of me asking two guys watching South Park if I could have one of their sweet treats flood my mind. South Park!
Jesus, how could I be so stupid?
“It wasn’t just a brownie, Birdie,” Andrew confirms what I’ve already figured out. I nod. “It was a pot brownie.” He cringes. “Pretty sure Howie’s stoner nephew Larry didn’t give you all the info about his fucking brownies, huh?”
“Um, no. He did not.”
“Frankly, Birdie, I’m tempted to press charges on that fuckup,” he says, and anger is evident in his voice.
A shocked laugh jumps from my throat. “You’re acting like he roofied me.”
“He may as well have,” he spits.
“Andrew, get serious. I’m not going to press charges on my director’s nephew for letting me eat one of his marijuana brownies. Surely, the guy was just stoned out of his mind, and I was too damn hungry and tipsy to piece it all together.” Andrew frowns in disagreement. “Don’t get me wrong, it was a real dick move, one I’m incredibly pissed off about, but I highly doubt it was intentional.”
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “He’s lucky I was too busy making sure you got somewhere safe last night. Otherwise, I would’ve ended up back at How’s and kicked his fucking ass.”
His candid honesty and visible anger take me by surprise, but the thing that makes me the most curious is the reality that he felt like he had to keep me safe.