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“Who are you?” she murmured, glancing down at herself and noticing for the first time she was dressed in nothing but a T-shirt—a large men’s T-s
hirt that hung nearly to her knees. She flipped up the edge and felt a wave of relief when she saw her black panties were still on. Though, as her hands crept up to her chest she realized she was braless.
That feeling in her gut—the one that told her shit was about to hit—shot up a few notches as she pushed her tangled hair from her face and glanced around what was, without a doubt, a bedroom. There was a bed. And it was in a room.
She was in someone’s bedroom. Shit.
She spied her wedding dress draped over a comfy looking chair and crossed over to it quickly, her hand at her temples as she reached for the expensive raw silk gown. Memories were slowly starting to filter through the haze inside her head as she gazed at the stains that marred the otherwise perfect dress. Then the dread in her stomach ramped up to an extreme level of alarm.
Where was she?
Her fingers trailed over the bodice and then her gaze moved to the jeans slung over the arm rest. Faded jeans.
Guy jeans.
Faded guy jeans.
For one second her world tipped a little to the left and if she hadn’t immediately reached for the chair she probably would have fallen on her ass. Hold on, she thought, breathing through her nose and exhaling slowly as she fought to keep her world balanced.
The Hard Rock.
Danny the bartender.
Whiskey.
She shuddered. Tequila.
Damn, the tequila.
Shane.
Her head whipped up, which was the wrong thing to do because pain took over again and she stumbled to her right, stubbing her toe on the edge of the chair and cursing like a sailor as she struggled to keep herself from falling on her ass.
What the hell had she done?
Carefully Bobbi turned in a circle. She saw the massive king size bed, the plain navy blue bed sheets—bed sheets that were a tangled mess—and she swallowed hard as she dragged her eyes away. There wasn’t much furniture in the room. A large armoire stood between two floor to ceiling windows, its elegant design simple, and other than the chair and a desk on the opposite wall, the room was empty.
The floors were dark wood, from the looks of them refurbished. And they were cold. Cripes, were they cold. She curled her toes and ran her hands along her arms, her eyes falling back to the dog. A dog that had a pink collar with silver studs and diamonds that twinkled. The fear inside her tripled. Shane had a dog. She was sure she’d heard Billie talking about the animal. It had a weird name.
Bobbi glanced toward the closed door and then bent toward the animal, “Come here doggie.”
The animal cocked its head to the side and for a brief moment, Bobbi felt as if she were staring into the eyes of a human—one who knew way too much.
The dog’s tail wagged even harder, its entire back end rocking, and then it ran to her side, tongue lolling to the side as it barked.
“Shush,” she whispered, glancing at the door once more as she bent over and grabbed the tag. It was as pink as the collar, with a phone number engraved on the back and when she turned it over, she saw the animal’s name.
Pia.
“That’s it,” she said hoarsely, reeling away from the animal. “You’re Shane’s.”
The dog looked at her as if she was an idiot—which apparently she was considering the day after her wedding-that-never-happened, she was dressed in next to nothing…in Shane’s bedroom.
She stared at the bed once more, wracking her brain, reaching for something more than the fuzzy memories of the Hard Rock. Something more than Shane coming to her rescue. Something that could tell her what happened after…
After the bar.
After they had come back to New Waterford.
