A moment passes, then another before her shoulders drop, and she lifts her bottle up. “What the hell... To delayed flights.”
I do the same and tap mine against hers. “To delayed flights.”
ASHTON
Sometimes I wonder if my life would be like this
if I’d just forwarded that stupid message to ten people back in middle school.
Oh well . . . You live and learn.
—Ashton’s Secret Thoughts
The faint buzzing in my head is absolutely not a good thing. Buzzing isn’t good. My body is my tool. It’s how I make my living. I take care of it. I rarely drink. Don’t smoke. Have never touched an illegal substance. I drink plenty of water, train every single day, and do my best to get a solid eight hours of sleep as often as I can. I know my body. I listen to it. It doesn’t buzz.
Waking up to a drum line using the inside of my head as a practice field is definitely the first indication something is seriously wrong...
And the second?
Oh, that would be the ache I feel in places that haven’t ached in a very,verylong time.
This is so not good.
My eyes feel like they’re glued shut, and it takes a monumental effort to force one open.
And...Oh God, I regret it immediately. Sandpaper feels like it’s replaced my eyelid.
Why the hell is it so bright in my—wait... I pull the blanket up and,oh shit—this itchy thing definitely isn’t the blanket from my bed, and,oh God, no... I’m naked under it.
Naked.
I don’t sleep naked.
I don’t ever sleep in less than flannel pajamas or sometimes full-on sweats. My roommates and I are way too cheap to turn the heat up in our apartment. We’re barely home, and when we are, we layer. It works and keeps the electricity bill down.
Which leads me to—why am I naked?
I can’t be... Please let me be wrong.
I peek under the blanket just to make sure I’m not imagining this...
Son of a bitch.
I’m not wrong, and I’m not clothed.
This can’t be good.
No sweats.
No flannels.
Not even a sock in sight.
Holy. Shit.
The only thing covering me is this thin, white, starched, itchy blanket and one big-ass arm. An arm that doesn’t belong to me. One that’s draped around my waist. A truly masculine arm wrapped in ink and corded muscle that absolutely isn’t supposed to be lying possessively across my body.
I think I’m going to be sick.
