The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(25)

“No, I get it. It’s fine.”

“I mean it, thank you—and I’m sorry you probably didn’t get much sleep last night being on the couch. That’s so awkward, I’m sorry. I can never sleep on mine.”

His toned, tanned shoulder goes up in a shrug. “I’ve slept in worse spots than the couch, trust me.”

I lean a few feet, capturing my shoes. Socks.

Slide one on, then the other, all the while managing not to fall on my ass.

Rising, I grab my boots. “Where exactly is your bathroom?”

He jams his thumb over his shoulder. “Straight across the hall, can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.”

He moves, giving me a wide berth as I stick my head into the hallway, not sure what I’ll find. I don’t know where I am or how many people live here.

How many guys are likely to see me doing the walk of shame? One? Three? Five?

“I live alone,” his deep voice calls, interrupting my thoughts from what I presume is the kitchen. “It’s safe to come out.” Pause. “You want that water now or something?”

Or something. Like, for example, a stun dart to my ass so I can pass out, wake up on a different day (or century), and remember none of this.

I make the short trek across the hall, using the wall as support, shutting the door behind me and exhaling a loud, relieved breath.

What I need right now is a warm shower, sleep, aspirin, water, and more sleep, in that order.

His bathroom is a decent size, mostly bare save for a few essentials laid out on the countertop. One sink, but a nice, long counter.

One navy blue hand towel folded into a neat square.

It’s not the cleanest bathroom I’ve ever been in, but to be fair, I would have been surprised if it was. He is, after all, a guy living alone—what reason would he have to keep the place spotless?

I brace my arms on the counter, one hand on either side of the sink, raising my eyes to gaze at the reflection in the mirror. It takes a few seconds to focus, the face before me blurred…until it’s not. I lean in closer, pressing my middle and forefinger into my cheeks, pulling at my bottom lids.

Verdict: I don’t look as terrible as I thought I would.

Okay, that’s a lie—I look like total shit.

Ugh.

Staring at the reflection, my expression is horrified. I gape at the sight of my hair, smudged mascara, and tired, red, bloodshot eyes. I’m so embarrassed by the way I look right now, embarrassed that my evening got so out of hand that a stranger—this guy I’ve only ever met once at the library—brought me home with him to keep me safe.

To his house.

To keep me safe.

The thought of all the things that could have happened to me because I was completely drunk? Shameful, upsetting. I could have ended up as one of those girls you see on the evening news or read about online.

Horrible decision to get drunk.

Horrible decision to go out while I was indulging in a pity party.

Horrible decision to allow this guy to bring me home, although I was passed out and couldn’t make the decision for myself.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

This is so unlike me.

I hunt down a clean washcloth, running it under the cold water and scrubbing my face clean. Try to locate a little moisturizer but only find aftershave lotion instead. No brush, but I do find a comb, one that barely pulls through my snarled locks without pulling my hair out.

Ouch.

I train my blue eyes on my clothes; they need to come off and hit the laundry. Gross. There’s a huge, yellow stain on the front of my white top, the flared sleeves wrinkled and looking worse for wear.

Pulling the cap off a tube of toothpaste, I squeeze it onto my finger and rub it along my teeth, the least effective technique for getting them clean, but it’s all I’ve got. Holding my hands under the water, I make a cup, drink, and swish water around my mouth, spitting the water and toothpaste into the sink. Repeat.

Crossing the bathroom, I hook my finger on the shower curtain, drawing it back to peer inside at the beige-colored tiles. Hmmm, a tiled shower? Not bad for a college rental. I wonder what he’d think if I hopped inside and took a quick shower with all his stuff. Would that be weird?

It definitely wouldn’t be any more impolite than crashing his pad and taking up his entire bed.

Contemplating, I grasp a long chunk of my hair, giving it a long whiff: stinky and gross.

I smell like I was in a dirty dive bar, not a harmless house party on Jock Row, and there wasn’t even anyone smoking. Even so, sweat, beer, and too many bodies can’t lead to any good.

My fingers brush the metal faucet. On one hand, I desperately want to jump under the shower spray; on the other, I’d have to put my dirty clothes back on afterward.

Crap.

There is no winning this one.

I let the shower curtain go, backing away.

Heft out a sigh, giving myself another glance in the mirror before tugging open the door. I pass the bedroom I slept in, my curious gaze shooting into the only other room off the hallway. Large wooden desk. Bookshelf. Iowa pennants. Some kind of framed award.

An office? A spare bedroom?

There’s certainly no one living in there.

Hmm.

I trudge down the hall, shoulders back and chin up. Though I didn’t grow up living with my dad, he still taught me some life lessons: do everything with conviction, hold your head up.