I jerk upright, heart racing.
At least I’m still dressed.
Wait… am I still in last night’s clothes?
That’s when I notice the dirty makeup wipes on the carpet.
My hand flies to my face.
Clean.
Perfectly clean.
He took my makeup off.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I don’t remember anything.
Maybe a few fragments. Something starts to claw its way through my very confused brain.
On the nightstand there’s a glass of water, an aspirin, and the tiniest Post-it:
“You’re not Wonder Woman. Hydrate. — Cohen.”
I drag a hand down my face.
No.
He didnotactually do that.
He cannot go from sexy demon to nurse-in-sweatpants overnight.
I take the aspirin anyway. I hate him, but not enough to suffer on purpose.
I’m already gearing up to yell at him when I hear it.
Water.
The shower.
He’s here.
He’s in the shower.
That asshole.
I shoot to my feet, wobble on the carpet, almost trip, then somehow manage to stay upright with all the dignity I have left (zero, in case anyone’s keeping score).
I storm toward the bathroom.
The door is slightly open.
Steam.
Running water.
I don’t knock.
