I forgot what number 3 was.
I splashed cold water across my face, hoping it would have the same effect it did when we were touring and partying our way across the world through our teens and twenties.
But it was just cold water.
I needed coffee. And bacon. That was how you survived a hangover in your thirties.
Well, really, it was cold pizza, but I didn’t think that’d be on the continental breakfast menu downstairs.
After a quick shower and forcibly ignoring my morning wood because the only way to get off at this point was to think of Winnie, and thinking of Winnie made me sad, andsad jacking off would make me even more sad, I got dressed and went downstairs in search of food.
Some small part of my brain knew that I was being an unreasonable mope. But the caveman in my brain only wanted Winnie.
And cold pizza.
After going downstairs and chugging a cup of coffee, I settled in with a feast of bacon, eggs, and a cherry cheese Danish that was definitely a day or two old, but my stomach didn’t care.
“I need to check out,” a voice said.
I looked over my shoulder to see Michael Bacher in a pair of khakis and a cable-knit sweater with another useless scarf draped over his shoulders. Who packed not one but two useless scarves for the same trip?
But he looked like a Ken doll, and I decidedly did not in my worn, flour-stained jeans, Slice, Slice, Baby sweatshirt, and sheep-fucker shoes.
“Checking out early?” the woman behind the counter asked.
My chest swelled with joy.
Michael’s lips puckered with annoyance. “I said I needed to check out, didn’t I?”
“Leaving empty-handed, huh?” At least I could officially tell Tamara that she wasn’t the only person I loved to antagonize.
Michael slapped his credit card on the counter and marched over to me.
I dropped my fork and stood. That was one thing about being the biggest guy in the room—it gave me a chance to set the tone, especially with assholes like this.
But Michael wasn’t intimidated or slowing down on his approach. His hand curled into a fist at his side.
Oh shit. I was a wiseass, for sure, but I was not the kind of guy who just punches people—even if I really wanted to. So as much as it killed me, I couldn’t whale on this dude.
With just two steps between us, he reared his arm back, and I braced for impact.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Gretchen said as she walked through the front doors of the hotel, decked out in cold-weather running gear.
She held an arm out and caught Michael’s fist before it collided with my face.
“The Hope Channel would just love to sue your ass, Michael. Do you know what kind of damages you’re looking at for stalling a production like this?”
Michael snarled at her and pulled his fist back.
It was true, though. The Hope Channel and Michael’s family’s company, True Vine Productions, had been at odds for decades. They would jump on a lawsuit like this even if it cost them much more than it would recoup.
“Like your punch could even sting,” I muttered.
Gretchen slapped my meaty shoulder. “You’re not really helping the situation here.”
Michael looked me up and down with a sneer. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?”
