Besides, Sloane hadn’t come off as a predator. He wouldn’t have taken advantage of Jamie’s drunken state.
Shit. This had to be Sloane’s place. The sheets carried his distinct scent, and after how wasted Jamie had been, Sloane wouldn’t have just abandoned him somewhere.
At least, he didn’t think so.
He flung the blanket aside, movements unsteady with panic. The room tilted before righting itself. Slow movements, dumbass. Your brain is still sloshing around in booze.
Frowning, he wondered why Sloane would bring him here.
Had he carried him inside?
A soft set of footsteps approached from the hall.
Jamie stilled, pulse hammering.
The doorknob turned with an eternity-long click.
His heart sprinted for the nearest exit while his body stayed rooted like prey.
The door eased open, hinges barely whispering. A broad figure filled the space—dark hair, familiar shoulders, the silhouette of last night’s bad decisions incarnate.
Jamie's mouth went desert-dry as the man stepped inside, moving with the careful precision of someone approaching a skittish animal. Or drunk men who apparently climbed into strangers’ cars.
“Please tell me this is one of those vivid fever dreams,” Jamie blurted out. “Maybe I inhaled toxic fumes at work. Cat litter poisoning. Brain parasites.”
Sloane stopped a few feet from the bed, hands loose at his sides, expression unnervingly calm while Jamie's insides performed Olympic-level gymnastics.
“Morning.” Sloane’s voice didn’t just settle in Jamie’s ears. It seeped into his bones, leaving him unsteady and breathless.
Pushing fistfuls of blanket away, Jamie sat taller, the room once again tipping slightly. “Right. Morning. Yes. That thing people have after… whatever this catastrophe is.”
He fixed his gaze on the wall, the ceiling, the floor. Anywhere but directly at Sloane. The memory of the bar flickered—mojitos, the jokes, the flirting, that smile he absolutely shouldn’t have noticed or craved. Then Jamie’s brain smudged out like someone dragged a thumb through wet ink. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t recall anything after that huge gulp of his drink.
His arm started to throb again, a reminder of the part he did remember.
William’s fingers digging in.
His voice.
His threat.
Jamie massaged the spot, trying to disguise the tremor in his hands. “So. Hypothetically. If someone woke up in a stranger’s bed, fully clothed—thank god—with zero memory of how they got there, that someone might be having a small internal meltdown. Not me, obviously. A hypothetical…someone.”
One corner of Sloane’s mouth curved upward. Not quite a smile, but something gentler. “Nothing embarrassing happened.”
Jamie pressed his palms against his eyes. “Okay, but did I sing? Did I cry? Did I try to adopt you? Because those all feel like things I’d do under the influence.”
“You didn’t sing,” Sloane said. “Or cry. Or adopt anyone.”
“That’s a relief. Adoption paperwork is such a hassle.”
His stomach complained loudly enough to betray him. The smell hit him a beat later—something warm from down the hall. Butter. Bread. Possibly eggs. The kind of smell that reminded him his last meal consisted of pretzels and despair.
Sloane cocked his head slightly, lips twitching. “You gonna stay for breakfast, kitten?”
Jamie hesitated. Every instinct told him to bolt from this place, from the awkwardness hanging between them, from whatever that thing was in Sloane’s voice that made his skin prickle with heat. But his empty stomach had other ideas, and experience had taught him that hunger only amplified bad judgment.
He cleared his throat. “Food…sounds good. Dramatic exits burn a lot of calories, you know.”
