On a scale of 1-10, how much did you puke last night, Whitney?
Attachment: 1 Photo
I cringe at the photo of me slumped against the DJ booth, a half drunken cup of clear liquid in my hand, someone’s tie wrapped around my forehead, and sunglasses I don’t remember stealing on my face.
Yup. I am never drinking again.
I did not puke.
I will also be murdering you for sharing that photo.
Wyatt
She’s a liar. My new shoes say otherwise.
And the couch…
Get fucked, Wyatt.
It was your fault, Blake. And Haden’s. He’s a bad influence.
Haden
I am an innocent bystander.
I can’t help the giggle that escapes when everyone sends laughing emojis in response to Haden.
Wesley
Bullshit. I saw you shove that bottle of tequila in her face. It was all downhill after that.
Harper
Wanna talk about downhill? Vivienne started the table dancing. Those poor venue owners will never host a Conway wedding again.
Vivienne
I hate you guys. It’s too early for this.
I close the texts out after that, head spinning and throat parched. I reach over to grab the glass of water and pop the life-saving pills right when Wyatt walks in. He’s already dressed head to toe, like he didn’t drink just as much last night. The smell of greasy bacon and fresh bread hits my nose right before I notice the plate in his hand. I nearly sigh in relief. Food is most definitely what I need right about now.
“Breakfast in bed?” I ask, cocking a quizzical brow. Wyatt smirks, coming to sit on the side of the bed and setting the plate where my glass of water was. “I didn’t trust you to make it out of here without keeling over.”
I huff, snagging a piece of bacon off the white porcelain plate and shoving it in my mouth. He watches me, and I become keenly aware that I’m in nothing but a T-shirt. No bra, no underwear. I tug the comforter up as much as I can with him sitting on it.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, dropping back to lean on one elbow.
“Like death.” I reply, eating a bite of toast and flopping back against the pillows. I’ve never been so thankful for Ana taking Brinley overnight. “I need coffee.”
“Finish your glass of water, and we’ll talk.” I glare at him, nearly tempted to throw the damn glass at his head, but the desire for a steaming cup of coffee is greater. I keep my eyes narrowed on his, making a show of chugging the water while he watches. I pull the empty glass from my lips, slowly running my tongue along my bottom lip, freeing it of any water droplets left behind. I watch as the fist resting against his head tightens, but he pulls himself up from the bed. With his back turned to me, and his new task to make me a cup of coffee, he says, “Careful, Whitney. You keep lookin’ at me like that and you won’t be able to leave that bed for a week.”
I internally beg myself to leave it, tonotrespond to his obvious, and successful attempt at making me blush—but I’m opening my big, fat mouth before I can stop it. It makes him pause, hand resting on the doorway. “Last night didn’t feel like pretend.”
“That’s because it wasn’t.” His words echo as he softly shuts the door.
Chapter Nineteen
WHITNEY
