I stumble toward the bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror. My hair’s a tangled nest, my mascara smudged around my eyes in a raccoon mask.
I look exactly like what I am.
A girl who got a little tipsy to smother her anxiety and let a dangerous man finger her against her kitchen counter.
The strike of shame I expect to feel never comes. Only dark, thrilling excitement surges through me.
Coffee. I require massive amounts of coffee before I can process any of this.
I stagger down the hall, the wood floor cool beneath my bare feet. The house feels different. The air seems heavier, the shadows deeper. Or maybe that’s just my hangover talking.
The kitchen stops me cold.
I find four beer cans scattered across the counter and an empty wine bottle.
Did we drink all that?
My stomach lurches at the thought. “No wonder I feel like death warmed over. Holy heck.” Shuffling along, I start gathering the empties, hands clasping on autopilot.
As I stagger toward the sink, my foot kicks cold, hard glass. A small vial rolls across the tile, catching the morning light. I bend down, my head protesting the movement, and pick it up. Empty. No label.
Weird. Maybe Kolya had this in his pocket? A shot glass? A mini bottle he brought with him? My brain is too fuzzy to figure out the details, so I set the vial and beer cans on the counter.
That’s when I notice my keys sitting beside the coffee maker. Did I leave them there after coming in with him? I always put my keys on the hook by the door. One of my many little routines that keeps life safe and predictable.
A note waits beneath them. The writer used neat, precise handwriting where all the letters are exactly the same size. So controlled. Just like Kolya.
Changed your tire. Swapped in your spare. Better get a new one.
I read the words twice, warmth spreading through my chest.
He changed my tire. After everything, he still took the time to fix my car before he left.
“Who does that? Good guys, right? Knights in shining armor? Men who care?”
But the image doesn’t match the man who stared down my date until he fled and broke a man’s arm and kneecap at thefarmers market. Or the man who pushed me against my own counter and drove me to an explosive orgasm with ruthless efficiency.
Kolya entices me into behaving in unimaginable ways. That knowledge, though exciting and exhilarating, also frightens me.
He’s…risky.
My skull throbs harder. I can’t reconcile the different versions of Kolya that keep sliding around in my mind. The menacing stranger who triggers fear and a racing heart. The attentive man who carries my classroom supplies and changes my tire. The intense lover who knew exactly how to touch me.
Which version is real?
I switch on the coffee maker and trudge toward the shower, hoping hot water will wash away some of the confusion, along with last night’s sins.
Twenty minutes later, I’m wrapped in a towel and almost human again. The headache’s receded to a dull pressure rather than an active assault. I call Bree while dabbing concealer under my eyes in an attempt to hide the evidence of my wild night.
“Well, good morning, sunshine.” The loud, cheerful greeting is typical Bree.
Breanna Holsten, my best friend in the whole world, knows everything about me the same way I know her. She’s just finished her night shift at the ER, so she’s probably relaxing with a movie and glass of wine. “Spill. How was the big date?”
I wince and adjust the phone volume. “Greg was terrible. He wouldn’t stop going on about his fantasy football league and his lawnmower. Even dismissed the server when he tried to take our orders to keep yapping.”
“Yikes. Please tell me you escaped before dessert.”
“Actually…” I hesitate, unsure of how much to share. “He kind of ran away.”
