Maybe Penn laced that Pop-Tart. Or I fell and blacked out. Maybe we got a second wind, made a new friend and stayed at their place, or spontaneously checked into a kitschy hotel.
But this isn’t like any hotel I’ve ever seen. Floor-to-ceiling fuchsia curtains frame a pair of tall windows, through which I can see nothing but sky. There’s a yellow dresser littered with candles and trinkets, and the hardwood floors are covered with a pink Moroccan rug. Vibrant green houseplants hang at varying heights in the corner behind me, and—God, what are the odds?Framed over the wooden headboard is the same painting of peonies that I had as a kid.
The faraway knocking returns, louder this time.
Who is that? Where am I? Why am I alone?
I swallow hard. There’s no Bridget, or Ryan, and as I whip the comforter off my legs, I realize I’m wearing no pants.
My hands drop to my waist, smoothing across a purple, lace-trimmed situation. A nightie. It’s thin-strapped and silky, and it barely reaches my upper thighs. For half a second, I think,I should really buy one of these.I’ve never bought fancy sleepwear in my life, no matter how many times Instagram tried to convince me.
But then, at the sight of my hands, goose bumps rise up my spine. My nails aren’t painted their usual ballet-slipper pink. They’re cerulean blue.
Something is off. Like, really off.
I need my phone.
It isn’t on the nightstand, which holds only a lava lamp, a clock that reads 8:04, and a white porcelain piggy bank.
This place is weird as hell.
Panic spikes in my bloodstream, leaving me dizzy as I rifle through the sheets, looking for my cell. I launch myself out of bed, then drop to all fours on the floor, searching underneath.
No luck. No phone. No clue where I am.
I sit back on my knees, exhaling slowly. It isn’t like Bridget and Ryan to abandon me. They must be nearby. Maybe they’re the ones knocking.
I venture out into the hallway, creeping past a closed door, a shockingly vibrant pink-and-purple bathroom, and an eerily empty bedroom with nothing but a mattress in the middle of the floor. With my heartbeat hammering between my temples, I reach the top of a grand staircase and pause, overlooking an enormous entryway with oversized artwork climbing the walls.
This isn’t a hotel. It’s a massive house. A mansion.
“Hello?” I call out, tiptoeing down the stairs.
Silence. Then more knocking.
I reach the tall front door and look through the peephole.
“No,” I mutter to myself. “What in the…”
With a huff, I swing open the door just as Penn leans in to knock again. He nearly falls into me—into my chest, which I’ve only just remembered is covered by a barely-there slip of silk. I look down at my right-in-his-face everything, then back up into his wide eyes.
Penn’s in a white T-shirt, the sleeves inched up on his shoulders, his hair curling out from beneath his backward navy baseball hat. His cheeks redden as he scratches at the nape of his neck, his gaze suddenly fixed to the tacky floral welcome mat between us.
“Hey,” he stutters. “I, uh…”
Embarrassed, I fumble toward the coatrack beside the door and grab a yellow polka-dot scarf, haphazardly wrapping it around my neck to end the peep show. My hair gets in my face, so I try to blow it back. When that doesn’t work, I move to tuck it behind my ears and shriek.
My hair is short. Hardly past my chin. “Someone cut my hair?!”
“Yeah,” Penn deadpans. “That’s usually how it works.”
To Penn, or maybe the universe, I ask, “What is going on? What happened last night?”
His lips curve. “Heard you had quite the fun birthday.”
“What does that mean?” My hands go to my face, as if they need to confirm I still have one. “And what are you doing here?”
Penn shifts and clears his throat. “I was wondering if…Can I stay with you?”
