Nope.
Why the fuck did I call him last night?
Maybe if I just go back to sleep, I’ll wake up from this dream in my own bed. I’d even take Will’s bed, at this point.
Anywhere but Derek’s.
Fuck.
Why did I drink? It’s not something I ever wanted to do. Yeah, maybe have a glass of wine here or there at a work function or whatever when I’m a full-grown adult. But now? No.
Disappointment sits heavily in my gut, like because I’ve gone the first eighteen years of my life without a single drop of alcohol, I’ve somehow broken my sobriety. I got through the pain of a concussion without the use of self-administered prescription painkillers, but all it took was one Ken-doll wannabe and I got tipsy-drunk?
Turning, I bury my face into the pillow and groan.
Letting out the noise makes me feel marginally better.
Okay, I can do this. I can open my eyes and find Derek’s eyes staring at me.
I’ll just count to three first.
Yep. Okay. Here it goes. One. Two.
…three.
I open my eyes, prepared for a jump scare, but the reality is anticlimactic.
The first thing I check as I sit up is the spot next to me, which was never slept in. The dark green duvet is perfectly smooth, and the pillow has no trace of a head dent. I scrutinize the rest of the room with narrowed eyes.
It’s…sterile.
There is no way this is Derek’s actual room. His room would be all dark blues and dark wood. There would be trinkets on top of the dresser, cologne, a massive bed, maybe even some kinky furniture. Not this white-walled, empty nothingness.
I mean, he is the kind of man who would make sure that everything has its place, but this room screams empty, not ordered.
Besides run-of-the-mill artwork on the wall above a dresser and a bedside table on each side of the queen bed, there is nothing here. The only items that detract from the basicness of the room are my things sitting on top of the dresser.
Spotting the pink ruffles and blonde hair on the dresser makes mortification burn in my chest. With a deep breath for bravery, I glance down at myself and, yep, the memory of Derek coaxing me out of my dress and into one of his shirts is definitely real.
Urgh.
Getting out of here is going to be so much fun.
Shoving the blankets back, I go in search of my phone on top of the dresser. There are a bunch of notifications, one of which is a text from a number I don’t know and quite a few from Oakley. Then there are two from Will. My stomach clenches at the sight of those last two.
Deciding I will deal with all of that later, I swipe the screen clear and check the time. Seven-twelve a.m.
Maybe early enough that I can sneak out without being seen?
With that hope in my heart, I gather my things to my chest, creep to the bedroom door, and ever so carefully turn the handle while praying to the kink gods that it doesn’t make anoise. Pulling the door open, I wait to hear movement or the TV or something, and my heart sinks when I hear a murmured conversation and then music.
Derek is up, and he must have the TV on.
Damn.
It’s fine. It’s totally fine. I can do this. I’ll just walk past him and right out the front door.
Wait. I’ll order an Uber now, so I don’t have to wait once I get out there.
