I wrap my finger around a long blonde strand and bring it to my nose. “It’s intoxicating.”
She hums in response and snuggles in closer. Within minutes, she’s fast asleep.
I lie awake, holding her as she snores softly into my chest, thinking this is not at all how I expected this day to end.
Iwake up, wrapped in a warm, thick navy comforter and someone else’s scent.
For half a second, I don’t know where I am. The ceiling above me is honey-colored wood instead of white, crossed with thick beams. The pillow smells like soap and spice and man. My cheek is pressed into a mattress that feels way too expensive and way too big to be mine.
Then I realize what’s wrong.
This is Waylon’s bed.
My eyes fly open, and panic punches me square in the stomach.
No. No, no, no.
I twist in the bed, sheets tangling around my legs. The space where he was is empty and cold now. My heart starts hammering.
What time is it? Where is my dress? My phone? Did he already leave?
I bolt upright, and the room swims for a second.
Okay, Shelby. Breathe.
I take in my surroundings. I’m in a king-size bed with a thick log frame and matching headboard, rustic and heavy, like it was carved straight from a tree trunk outside. A rumpled navy comforter is lying over my waist.
Two dark wood nightstands flank the bed. A matching chest of drawers sits against the far wall. There’s a leather chair tucked in the corner near the closet, a wool-lined denim jacket slung over one arm. A massive picture window takes up almost an entire wall, looking out into a forest of tall pine trees.
Sunlight is slipping between them.
It’s morning.
My stomach flips.
I spot the alarm clock on the nightstand across the bed from me and lean over the mattress to read it—9:02.
Nine.
Oh my God, nine.
I suck in a breath so sharp that it almost hurts. I’ve surely been missed at home by now.
Oh no. I left the festival last night without even telling anyone I was going.
I drop my head into my hands.
What was I thinking?
You weren’t thinking. Not with your head anyway.
I throw the covers off and swing my legs over the side of the bed just as the bathroom door opens.
Waylon steps out.
He’s freshly showered, his hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends, beads of water clinging to his chest. My eyes skate down his torso to where the towel hangs around his waist.
Damn.
