I am not in my bed.
I squeeze my eyes shut and start praying for mercy.
Okay. Think. Breathe. Assess.
I glance down at myself slowly, because sudden movements feel like a personal attack. I’m wearing a large Cambridge University t-shirt that hangs to mid-thigh.
My panties are still on.
No bra. No dress.
Yikes.
I shift carefully, doing a full-body check.
No soreness. No ache. No pain anywhere that would suggest I made catastrophic life choices.
That’s… very good.
I sink back into the pillows, heart racing, and try to piece the night together.
The Vault. Dancing. Shannon. Levi. Laughing.
The bar.
After that?
Fuzzy. Smeared. Like someone shook my memories loose and forgot to put them back.
There’s a hollow feeling in my chest that doesn’t match the situation. I’m safe. I know that. I’m surrounded by people who didn’t let anything bad happen.
So why do I feel like something already did?
Footsteps.
Heavy male footsteps.
My heart jumps straight into my throat.
I yank the sheet up to just under my eyes and peek out.
Who—
Holy shit.
Derek Pierce rounds the corner holding a mug of coffee, wearing nothing but low-slung pajama bottoms and a complete disregard for my sanity.
Muscles everywhere. Tattoos everywhere. Ink I’ve only ever glimpsed at the office sprawls across his chest and arms, disappearing beneath the waistband.
My brain shuts down entirely.
He takes a sip of coffee and scratches absently at his chest like this is perfectly normal.
“Hey,” he says. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?”
I know my bed head must be tragic. My hair probably looks like it tried to escape during the night.
But Derek’s bed head?
