The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(23)

I’m too tall for this shit.

For this couch.

I stare at the ceiling, eyes wide in the bleakness, grateful for my sweatshirt, scrap of blankie, and pitch-black living room. Still…knowing there’s someone else in my bedroom that I made myself responsible for has me awake, mind reeling.

For whatever reason, this girl has ended up in my path three times in one week, and I lie there wondering about the odds of that before flopping over, rolling to stare in the general direction of the television.

I blow out a frustrated puff of air, too large and long to get comfortable on this fucking sofa; it’s lumpy and dumb and I’m going to be awake all damn night, I just know it.

In fact, I’m already scheduling myself a Saturday afternoon nap. That thought mollifies me somewhat as I lie motionless for what feels like an eternity.





Anabelle



Am I dying?

I must be.

I press a palm to my forehead, feeling for a temperature. Pat my cheeks, feeling the burn. Oh God. I feel like utter shit, stars dancing behind my closed eyelids.

The spins.

The headache.

The nausea.

My hand flies to my stomach, then to my mouth when I try to move, rolling to the side of the bed. I reach my arm over the side, feeling blindly until my fingers find a bucket.

Thank God.

Wait, who put this here?

I flop back on my back, dizzy.

Don’t puke, don’t puke—you are not going to puke. Get it together, Anabelle. You are a grown woman.

I peel my eyelids open, slowly blinking back the sun that’s shining through a window that is most definitely not mine.

Where the hell am I?

This isn’t the ceiling in my bedroom at Dad’s house.

These ugly beige walls aren’t pink.

These navy blue sheets that smell like cologne? Definitely not mine.

I pull them up my chest, to my nose, giving them another whiff and concluding: this bedding unquestionably belongs to a male. Aftershave or woodsy shower gel, it matters not—these sheets smell fan-freaking-tastic.

I’m inhaling the fabric, breathing in the wonderful scent of some nameless, faceless guy, when I notice a lingering figure leaning against the doorjamb, white ceramic mug in his massive paws.

He has a lazy grin on his face, a warm, friendly smile with zero hint of any sexual connotation.

I peer over the hem of the sheet, wanting to curl up into a ball and die, but for entirely different reasons.

I know him.

From the library.

Shit, shit, double shit.

“Morning.” His voice has that low, bottomless, just-woken-up sound men have that I adore, so gravelly you want to climb inside it. He has a morning voice so good it’s giving my drunk self actual shivers.

“Um, morning?” I, on the other hand, sound like a frog, croaking out my pitiful greeting.

“How ya feelin’?” He’s wearing a cutoff navy T-shirt and gray sweats, and I’m hung-over but not freaking blind. My eyes, bless them, travel south to where his pants hang low on his hips, appreciating the view the entire way down.

Down his legs, to his bare feet.

“Hi,” I croak. “Good morning.”

Jesus Anabelle, you already said that! This couldn’t be more awkward.

“Sorry, I already said that.” I press two fingers to my throbbing temples. “I’m a little out of sorts.”

That’s putting it mildly, an exaggerated understatement.

“I’m never drinking again.”

I don’t know why the sight of him standing there is affecting me so much, but his hard, toned arms and slick skin do something to my already muddled, alcohol-soaked brain. Being in his house—hung-over in his house while he stands there drinking coffee, freshly showered and squeaky clean—makes me feel disgusting.

Embarrassed.

I can see from here that his green eyes are assessing me as I sit in the middle of his bed. They’re alert and aware as if he’s had plenty of sleep.

“You had a rough night.” He states it as a fact, and I search his tone for judgment.

There doesn’t seem to be any.

“I did, and I—did I sleep here? Duh, obviously I slept here.” I laugh nervously then groan. Oh God, my head. “Is this your house?”

“It is.” He shifts on his heels, and my eyes roam once again to his bare feet. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought you here last night, but I couldn’t get you to tell me your address.”

My lips barely move as I whisper an appalled, “I am so sorry.”

“And not to sound like a fucking stalker, but once I recognized you and saw how drunk you were getting, there was no way in hell I was leaving you at that party.”

“Why?”

“You couldn’t even stand up, and sorry to be so blunt, but you shouldn’t have been drinking so much—it was a dumb thing to do.”

No doubt I was wallowing in my sorrows. The humiliation from having those wrestlers talking about me and making bets behind my back is embarrassing enough; getting so drunk I don’t remember this guy bringing me home is almost worse.

Anything could have happened last night. Terrible, bad things.

“So you brought me home?”

He sips from that white mug, and I wonder what’s inside. “Yeah, sorry. I didn’t really have any other choice. You weren’t able to tell me where to go and then you passed out when I wouldn’t take you to McDonald’s for French fries.”