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I rolled onto my back and quickly kicked my foot out to touch the floor of my bedroom to stop the spinning.
“Did we have a podcast?”
“We did, but we can reschedule.” She paused. “Are you sick?”
I pulled the pillow over my face. “Maybe.”
“I can’t hear you.”
I flipped it back. “Maybe.”
“That sounds more like hungover.”
“Maybe.”
Ryan’s husky laugh filled my bedroom. “What did you do last night? I thought you were just getting together to talk about tarot with some people.”
“There was sangria and margaritas and finger food.”
“So, more drinks than eating going on, huh?”
“Ugh. Yes.” I rolled up to a seated position and the room only shifted a little. I may still have been drunk. “I think Tabitha dumped way more than just wine into that sangria.”
“Well, if you make it right—or like half the Pinterest recipes—there’s usually triple sec in there too.”
“Ugh. She did say it was from Pinterest.” Based on the taste at the back of my tongue, I’d bet it was more like brandy. It never, ever treated me well. “Would you hate me if we skipped it tonight?”
“No big. We can do it tomorrow. Want me to bring over the hangover cure?”
“Oh.” I sighed as I rubbed my stomach. “You don’t mind? I mean, technically I could walk across the way to the diner.”
She laughed. “Nah. I’m bored anyway. I’ll be there with a meatloaf special.”
“You’re the best.”
“As long as you’re aware of that fact, the bestie status is sound. See ya in a bit.”
I dragged myself out of my bed and padded to the bathroom. I looked like death dipped in glitter. Somehow I’d lost my shorts and kept my bra—which was usually the first thing I took off—and had one sandal on.
“You’re a mess.”
There was no fixing that without a shower. I stripped off what was left of my outfit from the night before and scrubbed my face, hair, and person. It was still as hot as the surface of the sun according to my phone app so I dragged on a pair of boxer shorts I’d stolen from an old boyfriend and a tank top. I put my hair up into space buns to get it out of my face.
By the time I stumbled into the kitchen, I was slightly better. Post coffee and Tylenol, I was closer to human. I switched to lemon water to rehydrate for the wine I was sure that was in my future, then forced myself to settle on my yoga mat and stretch out the rest of the kinks from drunk sleep.
Which was definitely not the best kind of sleep.
I got a text from Ryan that she was around the corner, so I jumped up to set my small table and put on some music. Feeling a little more like myself, I danced around the room to my favorite boy band. They were infectious and had surprisingly well-written songs, and I didn’t even care that I was staring at the wrong end of twenty as the British dudes of One Direction became my dinner playlist.
I heard a noise in the hall—what amounted to a yowling cat singing along to “Stockholm Syndrome”, and fumbling at my doorknob.
“Man, I knew your voice was terrible, Ry—” I opened the door.
A very sunburned and slightly unsteady on his feet Caleb Beck was at my door. He was frowning and looking at his keys then back up at me. “Oh, sorry.” He swayed a bit and smiled. “Hey, it’s my favorite neighbor.” He leaned in. “Gosh, you smell good.”
I put my hand on his chest and pushed him back into the hall. “Wrong door, Romeo.”
He frowned down at his keys again. “Well, that’s why it didn’t work.” Then his gaze tripped over my very braless chest and down to my legs. “Have mercy.”
