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—Caitlin’s Secret Thoughts
Oh . . . My . . . God . . .
I roll away from the sunlight shining so obnoxiously bright through my windows, it’s stabbing my eyes with a million tiny pinpricks. So much for not overdoing it last night.Oh, who am I kidding?I knew exactly what I was doing... At least I did until—wait... did I?
I look under the sheet, andsweet baby Jesus.
No.
No. No.No.
Noooooo.
Tell me I didn’t.
I throw the blankets off, and it’s still there.
Callen’s shirt.
Shit.
Stars light up my now completely non-existent vision as the room spins, and I press the heels of my palms against my eyes, begging the universe to show me I didn’t really untie my dress and let it fall in a puddle of Italian silk on the floor in front of CallenfuckingSinclair. But I already know the answer. I can smell it all over my body. Because me naked wasn’t enough to get Callen’s attention. No... Instead, he was horrified enough to rip his own clothes off to cover me up.
You’d think I’d have learned this lesson his senior year in college.
Guess Mom was right. I always do have to learn things the hard way.
Oh. My. God.
I bury my red-hot face under my pillow and pray for a do-over.
I don’t get it because karma is an asshole. A big, fat, hairy asshole.
Seriously... no woman would let me make this big of a fool out of myself.
Twice.
Nope. Karma is obviously a douchey dude.
After quite possibly the longest, scalding-hot shower of my life... one I spend the majority of sitting on the tile floor—whichhey, at least I wasn’t in a full-on fetal position—I slide on a pair of soft sleep shorts and an oversized tee. Then I stare at my door for a full five minutes, working up the courage to face the consequences of my less than stellar decision-making skills.
It takes longer than that for me to make my way down to our kitchen, where my walking, talking nightmare is standing in drool-worthy gray sweatpants, shirtless, and looking like adaydream. He’s flipping chocolate chip pancakes on a skillet, while a piping-hot coffee pot sits freshly brewed next to him. Two mugs are steaming on the kitchen table with a glass of orange juice sitting next to a bottle of ibuprofen, and I offer up a silent prayer of thanks as I pop two pills and wash them down with the cool OJ, then slide quietly into one of the chairs.
Neither of us says anything until he walks my way and slides a plate of pancakes and bacon in front of me. “Eat, Cait. The carbs and grease will help with the hangover.”
I lift my chin in an attempt at defiance that might help save my dignity, if I had any left, but actually just hurts my throbbing head instead. “Who says I have a hangover?”
Callen’s smile is cocky and gorgeous.
The ass.
He reaches out and runs a hand gently over my head and down my hair.Damn. Even that hurts. Not that I can focus on the pain. I can’t. Not when I’m too shocked he’s touching me. Something he used to do freely before I threw myself at him when I was eighteen. “Eat, Cait.”
Like I didn’t hear him the first time.
So bossy.
I bring my knees up to my chest and pick up a piece of bacon while I watch the muscles on his back move gracefully as he fills another plate and sits across from me. Callen raises his brow and waits until I actually eat mine before picking up his own fork. “Good girl.”
