Then it hits me.
The conference. New York. The apartment.
Except…
I glance around. I’m not in the apartment—I’m in a hotel room.
Oh, boy.
I move forward, and nausea climbs up my throat, my head spinning.
Jesus fuck, what was I drinking last night?
My eyes dart back to the bed.
It’s Mila. Mila Harris.
And she’s naked.
My mouth dries.
Nofuckingway. I would never…
I can vaguely remember her dancing. Then we kissed…
FUCK!
But I stopped her from doing anything else.
But I kissed Mila Harris.
My stomach churns, and I race for the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before I throw up, loud and messy.
Shit. What have I done?
“Hey,” a sleepy voice says from the doorway, and I close my eyes.
“Shall I order us some breakfast?” Mila suggests with a yawn.
I turn to see her naked in front of me—like it’s entirely fucking normal.
“Can you put some clothes on?” I snap, refusing to look at her.
She disappears, and I groan.
Thiscannotbe happening.
The buzzing starts again, then I realize—it’s my phone.
Dread coils in my gut as I hang my head, wishing I could flush myself down the toilet.
What the fuck was I thinking?
I reach around and slide my phone from my pocket, seeing the low battery symbol flashing at me.
Double shit.
It’s Jade.
