“Turned it off?”
“It was making a noise.”
“Was it?” I turn to face him. He’s studying the ceiling, likely already locking in whatever version of events he’s about to commit to. I’ve known George Torres-Macklin for a decade, so I know all his faces. This one is careful, but it’s not the lying-careful yet, just the one where he’s deciding exactly how much truth to survive on. I don’t have enough information yet to know which way this is going.
If he’s just hot, that wouldn’t explain why I’m fucking naked in his bed.
“We share a room on every trip,” I say slowly. “Colorado, Arizona, Texas, that terrible long weekend in Vegas we agreed never to discuss again. Not once in all that time have I woken up in the wrong bed.”
“First time for everything,” George mutters.
I stare at him. He keeps looking at the ceiling.
“George.”
“What?”
“Did something happen between us last night?”
For a second, his expression changes, then it smooths out completely. “Had too much to drink. Don’t fucking remember,” he says flatly, unreadable. Pure George.
I don’t remember, either. It doesn’t happen to him as often as it does to me. I can drink too much and lose whole chunks of the night to missing memory. People know this about me. It’s not a point of pride, but it’s a very consistent personal habit. And right now, it’s the most inconvenient thing about me.
“We going to talk about it?” I find myself asking.
George grunts. He fucking grunts for replies, and this one I can tell means, “What’s the point?”
I sit up. The sheet comes with me. George grabs it from the other side to cover his junk.
We look at each other over the sheet like two idiots in a very awkward tug-of-war.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I say.
“Okay,” he says, and doesn’t let go of the sheet.
“So I need the sheet.”
“Same here.”
No shit. There’s only one of it, two naked men, and neither of us has any claim to the moral high ground. I evaluate my options. I have a pounding headache and an unanswered question. George looks at me, perfectly still, waiting to see what ridiculous thing Lance Bradford is going to do next.
I let go of the sheet and drag my naked ass off the bed, doing my own version of the Walk of Shame.
Except that I’m not really ashamed. Why would I be? I’ve kept my dignity intact in way worse situations than this. I refuse to fight a grown man over one hotel sheet when I can just walk away with my head held high.
I head straight for my clothes scattered on the floor to pick them up. It’s the same automatic move anyone makes after a one-night stand—except this is totally not a one-night stand. We just woke up naked in the same bed like two responsible adults who definitely did not fuck. Completely different situation.
On pure autopilot, I plant my feet wide and start bending at the waist to grab my pants. Halfway down, I realize one very minor detail.
George is right behind me. Awake. And I’m about to give him a full panoramic view of my ass like it’s a goddamn art exhibit.
I freeze mid-bend, then snap back upright fast.
Fuck. Do I squat down like a girl in a short skirt, knees together, all dainty and proper?
Behind me, George’s deep voice cuts through the silence.
“You gonna pick that up?”
