Page 2 of Wild Abandon

“It’s my wedding, too!”

“No.” Stomp. “It’s my day, my day, my day!” Stomp, stomp, stomp.

I am not an impulsive woman.

I have decorum.

I have composure.

Never in my life would I dream of ruining someone’s special day.

That’s why I don’t know why in the world I stand up and scream toward the open window of the bridal suite, “Shut up, you stupid, ungrateful cow!”

All eyes on the veranda are no longer fixed on the window. Instead, they’re all glaring at me.

Yes, me.

When the deafening silence of the moment registers in my brain, I smooth the pleats of my dress, take my seat, and continue playing. This time, it’s Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World.”

Safe to say, this is not my finest hour.

And this is not my finest morning.

I wake up with a throbbing in my brain and heaviness in my gut. I slowly open my eyes and have to blink a few times to get my bearings.

This is not my apartment.

Oh no. What have I done?

Well, apparently, I broke cardinal rule number one: Never go home with a man on the first date.

This is bad. This is very, very bad.

I attempt to roll over, but a man’s leg is draped over me, and I have no idea whose it is.

No, wait. I do.

It’s Ian, the architect from Manhattan, whom I connected with online.

After getting fired from my weekend job for the ridiculous outburst, I went home and logged into Facebook. If I thought my day had started poorly, well, what I saw on Facebook made sure it ended with some pretty bad choices.

Ian: Tell me, Crystal, what is it you want tonight?

Me: I want to forget.

Forget, I did, and now, I’m remembering more than I wanted to forget. I have an odd vision in my head of Thor and his hammer that I can’t shake. For some reason, I have a vague memory of—

Yep, there it is.

I look down at Ian’s thigh where he has a tattoo of Thor with his arm outstretched up into Ian’s groin, holding on to his, ahem…hammer. Yes, Ian refers to his package as his hammer. And he is Thor.

That would be about the time I passed out—thank God. At least I still have my bra and panties on.

I don’t want to wake him and have the awkward will-I-or-will-I-not-see-you-again or—God forbid—the let’s-pick-up-where-we-left-off-last-night conversation because, honestly, I have no intention of seeing him again.

Gently, I roll over but am trapped by his lower leg wrapped around my calf. Holy crap, you’d think his legs were made of lead. I peek down and see my creamy skin being weighed down by his hairy, muscular leg. I try to pry my calf from the offending appendage, but this only causes him to moan in his sleep and inch closer to me. With one quick motion, I pull my leg from his and fly off the bed, leaping up from the floor.

Looking down at Ian, I can see how I was attracted to him last night. Light hair, rugged face, and a chin dimple. I mean, who can resist a chin dimple? But that was about as attractive as he got. His excessive discussion on the size of his erect buildings made me think he was overcompensating for something. And then I saw the tattoo. Yeah, making it look like a hammer doesn’t actually make it as large as one.