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“Beckett?!”
I peel open my dry, sticky eyes.
My head. Ouch.
After several long seconds of panting through the pain, the agony subsides long enough for me to move.
I try to sit up, but the room is spinning.
God, please make it stop.
I try again.
I finally sit up on the bed, completely disoriented.
My clothes are sitting in a condemning puddle of mess on the floor.
What the hell?
I always hang-up my clothes. Without fail.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The noise rattles my brain, jarring a flood of memories.
My muddled brain sparks to life, as I struggle to piece together the previous night.
Oh, yeah. Thanks for nothing, Phoebe.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Arianne! Are you in there? Are you hurt? Open up or I’ll call the police.”
Shit.
I push the sheet off my body and pull on a t-shirt as I waddle to the door.
Dear God.
My stomach feels like a sinking ship.
I grip the doorframe to avoid face planting, my step unstable.
“Arianne!”
“Coming!” My voice is so hoarse.
Serves me right for throwing caution to the wind.
When I open the door, blue-eyes squint at me, then they widen.
The sexy man standing before me takes me in, and chuckles.
“What’s so funny?” Am I slurring my words?
“You,” Beckett says. “Your morning hair is wild.” Freaked out, I try to tame it, but I already know it’s a losing battle. “And your t-shirt!” He points at my chest.
My eyes follow his finger.
