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“Ow,” she bellowed, rubbing the newly bruised flesh.
As she had evidently forgotten the layout of her bedroom, it seemed she had no choice but to brave the daylight and open her eyes. The first thing she noticed was the dresser she’d walked into. Finely polished cherry wood.
She didn’t own a dresser that nice. Hers was from IKEA, and she’d put it together wrong so the drawers were crooked and didn’t come out the whole way.
This one was expensive.
She blinked several times, chasing away the spots of light clouding her vision, and rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand to wipe the traces of sleep sticking to her lashes. When she opened them again, the truth was obvious.
Emmy wasn’t in her bedroom.
The floor-to-ceiling windows running the entire length of one wall showed an incredible view of the Bay, which was glimmering with the rare reflection of sunlight. The Bay Bridge, an unimpressive gray color in daylight, still managed to look magnificent from above, spanning the length of the water, connecting San Francisco to Oakland. Cars moved back and forth along the two levels, completely unaware she was watching.
She moved closer to look down, and below her was the path along the waterfront. There were almost no buildings between her and the Bay. Wherever she was, these digs weren’t cheap. Real estate this close to the water would set someone back millions. Literal millions.
Emmy took a visual inventory of the room, the furnishings and décor backing up the notion she was in the bedroom of someone who made a healthy amount of money. The white duvet on the bed radiated the word expensive, and the Egyptian cotton sheets should have been a dead giveaway she hadn’t woken in her own bed. Bed, Bath and Beyond didn’t sell sheets that felt like cashmere.
The room was sparsely decorated, only a few masculine pieces. She wasn’t brave enough to rifle throug
h the drawers, but on the dresser was a photo in a simple wood frame.
When she picked up the frame, her stomach fell out her ass, and she fought the urge to vomit. The photo showed two men smiling wearing filthy baseball uniforms while they were sprayed down with champagne.
Tucker Lloyd and Alex Ross.
Since she hadn’t seen Tucker at all the night before, and had spent the better part of the evening getting wasted with Alex, it didn’t take a genius to do the math.
But she was still fully clothed. That had to mean something good, right? Unless they’d had the worlds sloppiest, most rushed one-night stand ever and kept their clothes on the whole time.
That seemed unlikely.
Still, she’d woken up in a strange bed, in an unknown apartment, and all signs pointed to her going home with the catcher of the team she worked for. As much as she wanted to believe nothing had happened—and her clothes were a blessing in that sense—she didn’t remember much about the night, and anything was possible.
“Fuck,” she grumbled, putting the frame back on the dresser.
What a bonehead move. She’d broken up with Simon to smooth the path for whatever was going on with her and Tucker, and what was the first thing she did?
Slept with Tucker’s best friend.
Or at least she’d slept in his bed. Either way it didn’t look good, and it wouldn’t be easy to explain. Would Alex be any help at all? If it was as innocent as it seemed, would he let it go, or would he use it to tease her mercilessly and make things that much worse?
Her stomach churned, and she fought back the bile rising in her throat. She couldn’t decide if her nausea had more to do with her situation or all the beer and whiskey she’d filled herself with at the bar. Probably equal parts of both.
Emmy had to give herself credit. She was a master of getting into the most fucked-up situations when it came to her personal life.
Since she hadn’t woken up next to Alex, signs pointed to him being somewhere else in the condo. She might as well bite the bullet and face him so they could figure out how to handle things. She was hoping he’d let her slink home quietly with her tail between her legs and a massive headache as punishment.
If she got lucky in that sense, she would never ask for another favor from God as long as she lived. Even though she wasn’t Catholic, she made the sign of the cross to demonstrate her sincerity. Then, having lollygagged as long as she could without feeling stupid, she eased open the bedroom door and went searching for Alex.
The bathroom and kitchen lights were both dimmed, and the guest bedroom was empty. Why had she been in the master if there was a perfectly good guestroom? The queasy feeling renewed in her tummy.
Beyond the guestroom was a large open-concept living room/dining room, each sharing the same big glass wall as the master with its stunning view of the Bay. She wished she could remember seeing that view at night because it must have been something extraordinary.
A big-screen TV fixed to one wall was set to mute but had SportsCenter on, the previous night’s box scores scrolling along the bottom while a highlight reel of the best clips from the games showed on screen. She smiled to herself when they recapped Tucker’s stellar pitching efforts.
A muffled snore from the large leather sectional drew her attention back, and she edged forward until her thighs were against the sofa and she was staring down at the man sleeping there.
It took a moment for her brain to process what she was seeing. Unless Alex had grown six inches overnight and had traded his small paunch for lean muscle, she was not in Alex Ross’s condo.
