I felt like an idiot for giving him my number, for thinking that maybe there was a spark between us. The giddiness I had experienced after seeing him suddenly seemed foolish and stupid in hindsight.
I needed a distraction, and that’s how I ended up drunk off my ass at a summer concert.
Memories of the night before finally came flooding back—fuzzy at the edges, but clear enough that I remembered my surprise at bumping into Tarzan. And then…
Come on, Tarzan. Kiss me.
I groaned and buried my face in the pillow.
Tarzan’s pillow. It smelled like him—masculine, a trace of leather, earthy soap, and whiskey.
Fuck, my dignity would never recover from this.
Although, I had to admit, the fact that he had hoisted me over his shoulder so easily was hot as hell.
Crawling out of bed, I realized that I still wore the same clothes from last night. So, at least I wasn’t waking up naked.
I spotted my purse on the nightstand, and snatched it up with a sound of relief. My everyday purse was much bigger and too clunky for the concert, loaded with everything from tampons, makeup, perfume, and hairspray, to snacks, my e-reader, and an array of painkillers.
For the concert, I’d opted to travel light, choosing a rose-gold little thing with a sparkly beaded strap to match my dress. It was just enough to cover the bare essentials.
Stumbling to the bathroom on wobbly knees, I did my best to wash up. My curls were a tangled, flattened rat’s nest. And my mascara had smudged, making me look like a raccoon.
After scrubbing my face clean, I used my finger as an impromptu toothbrush and stole a swig of Tarzan’s mouthwash. Fussing with my hair for nearly fifteen minutes, I finally gave up and pulled it into a messy ponytail.
I didn’t bring enough makeup for a full refresh. But at least I could do my signature wingtip eyeliner and red lippy. Otherwise, I didn’t feel like myself without them.
Emerging from the bathroom, I searched for my wedge heels and found them tucked together neatly by the door. Just as I took a step to retrieve them, the door opened and Tarzan entered.
My heart skipped a beat.
Fuck, he looked so good. Wearing gray sweatpants and a snug black T-shirt clinging to his muscles, he had more ink on display than I’d ever seen before and it was mesmerizing.
I was supposed to be mad at him for not calling me back.
But one look at him and I folded like a house of cards.
Maybe my dad was right. My romantic streak would be more trouble than it was worth. Chasing men who didn’t want me back, who were too skittish about commitment to take me seriously.
“Room service,” Tarzan said, holding up a tray with eggs and toast, coffee, orange juice, and a bottle of painkillers. He nudged the door closed with his foot. “How’s your hangover treating you?”
I grimaced and rubbed my temples.
“It’s killing me.”
“Thought so.” Crossing the room, Tarzan set the tray on the nightstand and twisted open the ibuprofen lid, shaking two pills into his palm. He passed them to me, along with the glass of orange juice. “You were really enjoying those mai tais last night.”
I groaned and popped the pills, chasing them down with the juice.
“Please don’t remind me.”
“For what it’s worth, you seemed to be having fun,” Tarzan replied.
I wrinkled my nose. “I remember…some of it. Enough to know I want to crawl into a deep, dark hole for a thousand years with mortification for the way I behaved.”
He chuckled and settled on the end of the mattress.
“Sweetheart, I’ve seen bikers behave far worse when they’re drunk.”
