Page 5 of None Of Your Business

My heart gives a hard thud. Where the hell am I?

I look down and realize I’m wearing a giant navy T-shirt that covers most of my thighs. Pulling the collar away from my chest, I let out a sigh of relief when I find my underwear still on.

This is why I don’t usually drink tequila.

I remember Madison and Beckett’s engagement party and three bright pink margaritas that tasted like juice. Piper warned me they were lethal, but I was confident. Now, a massive chunk of last night is missing from my memory.

It’s only when I find the nerve to look to my right that I spot the shoulder. A broad, bare shoulder disappearing beneath a navy duvet.

I lean sideways to get a better angle, but a sharp ache in my hip makes me wince.

“Excuse me,” I whisper to the back of his head. “Hello?”

Nothing.

The shoulder is attached to an equally bare back. He’s lying on his stomach, facing away from me, with one arm tucked beneath his pillow.

There’s a naked man in this bed.

Maybe he’s lovely. Maybe we exchanged names. What if I gave him a fake name? What if I spent the night convincing a stranger that my name is Beyoncé?

I clear my throat. “Excuse me. Sir?”

He doesn’t even twitch.

Oh my God, what if he’s dead?

How could I have killed him? Sex? Is it physically possible for me to kill a man with sex? Unlikely, based on my historical performance, but tequila changes a person.

I lean closer and notice the slow, steady rise and fall of his back. Not dead. Great. Though honestly, a corpse would be easier to navigate than whatever awkward conversation is coming.

I extend a finger and jab his shoulder. The muscle is warm and rock-hard.

“Mr. Stranger Sir?”

He makes a low, irritated noise into the pillow.

“Sorry,” I blurt. “Hi. I just need you to wake up because I don’t know where I am and I think we may have—”

He rolls over.

“AAAAAAAAAH!”

Hudson Vaughn bolts upright so fast that his forehead nearly takes out my nose. “What the fuck?”

I scream again and scramble backward. “Hudson?”

“What the hell are you doing in here?” he barks, blinking against the light.

“What am I doing in here? What are you doing in here?”

“This is my bed.”

“I’m aware of that now.”

He throws the duvet aside and swings his legs out.

Oh, sweet Jesus. He’s in gray boxer briefs—all long legs, thick thighs, and a broad chest with a trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband.