I jerk away from his pillow so fast the world tilts like I'm on one of those spinny teacup rides at Disney. Except there's nothing magical about this morning after. Especially since there wasn't even a proper morning after to be mortified about.
Oh sweet merciful goddess.
Memories flood back. Every single moment in vivid horror. Me, straddling him in the dark like some touch-starved succubus. His hands on my hips, rough and perfect, and everything I'd imagined. The way I'd—nope. That's a path of shame I'm not ready to skip down.
I chuckhis pillow across the room and immediately regret moving at all as my stomach does its best impression of a washing machine on spin cycle.
"This is completely fine," I inform the empty room, my voice raw and scratchy. "Everything's totally fine. Another day where I definitelydidn'tthrow myself at my best friend like a cat in heat."
Except it's about as fine as that time I tried to cleanse my shop with sage and set off the sprinkler system instead. Because last night, drunk-me decided to beg my best friend to ruin our friendship with his stupidly perfect mouth, and got shut down hard.
We can't.
The words bounce around my skull. He hadn't even said he didn't want to—he'd said wecan't.
That's the knife that keeps twisting, each word another shot to my already bleeding dignity. Not withme. Because apparently Caleb Miller will hook up with half the female population of Hallow's End, but I don't even make the B-list of potential mistakes.
I glance down and—perfect—I'm still wearing his shirt, the soft cotton hanging to mid-thigh like some boyfriend trophy I never earned the right to claim. The same one he tossed at me last night during my strip-tease-gone-wrong impression. Because that happened. That was a choice I made. Past Ivy really said, "Let's speed run through every embarrassing moment possible," and went for gold.
"Get it together," I mutter, trying to stand. "You're fine. This is—"
My stomach heaves.
Not fine not fine not fine.
I barely make it to the bathroom, slamming into the doorframe in the process. The tile hits blessedly cold against my skin as I drop to my knees, offering last night's tequila to the porcelain goddess.
And because the universe hates me, that's when my brain decides to remind me about Sarah.
I word-vomited everything to her last night. Every secret feeling I've kept locked in my chest since Caleb first smiled at me with those stupid dimples freshman year. Every time his touch lingered too long, every loaded look that made my heart race.
My stomach lurches again, and I'm not sure if it's the tequila, or the memory of my tipsy self spilling secrets. Please tell me Sarah blacked out. Please tell me her martini-marinated brain wiped the whole thing.
The sound of the room door opening freezes me mid-heave.
No.
Footsteps approach the bathroom.
Please no.
I try to army crawl toward the door, desperate to lock it before—
"Ivy?"
I freeze, ass in the air, fingers inches from the handle. And of course, there's Caleb, casually watching me flop around in nothing but his damn shirt.
Which is when I realize where my face is positioned in relation to his body. As in, dead center with his crotch. My cheeks go up in flames as my eyes snag on the zipper of his jeans, and there it is—that ghost of sensation, hips grinding into mine, like my skin never forgot.
Our eyes lock, and the air sizzles. His pupils blow wide, jaw clenching in a way that sends sparks straight between my legs. Because my body hasn't gotten the memo that we're not doing this. That he doesn't want this. Want me.
My stomach chooses that exact moment to remind me why I was crawling in the first place.
"Oh no," I whimper, lunging for the toilet.
At least now I know exactly what rock bottom feels like—it's cold, ceramic, and currently pressing against my forehead while theguy I tried to seduce last night gets a front-row seat to this glamorous morning after.
Warm hands gather my hair back from my face, and the gentle touch makes everything worse because it's soCaleb.
