Page 50 of On the Breakaway

Memories from last night slam back into me all at once.

“No. No. No fucking way.”

I shove the blankets away and nearly fall out of bed trying to untangle myself from them.

I threw up in front of Grayson Shaw.

Not only that, but he apparently brought my drunk corpse home afterward in some deeply unfortunate act of charity.

Mortification crawls up my spine so fast I nearly choke on it. And then, as if humiliation alone isn’t enough punishment, I glance down at myself. An oversized black t-shirt hangs halfway down my thighs. A giant Boston Blades logo covers the front while vinyl lettering presses against my shoulder blades on the back.

His last name.

Oh god.

I press both palms against my burning face while my brain supplies increasingly horrifying snippets from the night before.

Pretty men are dangerous.

My parents emotionally waterboarded me.

IKEA dresser.

I need to leave immediately, preferably before he wakes up.

My eyes dart frantically around the room until they land on a chair near the wall, my clothes sitting neatly folded on top of it. Considering I don’t even fold my clothes sober, there is no way I did it drunk, which means he did.

I refuse to emotionally process that while in the middle of my covert escape mission.

I shove myself into my jeans as quickly as my hangover allows, grab my boots, and creep into the hallway as silently as possible. The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and distant city noise drifting through the windows.

Hope sparks instantly. Maybe I can actually pull this off.

The apartment is nicer in daylight than I remember from last night. The clean lines and dark wood manage to feel warm instead of sterile. It’s annoying.

I round the corner toward the front door and stop so abruptly that I stumble backward.

He’s in the kitchen.

His back is toward me while he leans into the open refrigerator, one hand braced against the door as he searches for something inside. Morning light spills across broad shoulders and hard muscle before disappearing beneath a pair of loose gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips.

Oh, that’s just unfair.

I stare helplessly. His hair is messy, curling at the ends like he showered but hasn’t bothered fixing it yet. Somehow, the less polished version of him is infinitely worse for my mental stability than the buttoned-up version I normally deal with.

This version feels too real.

Abort mission.

My grip tightens on my boots as I carefully skirt around the edge of the living room toward the front door. I’m maybe five steps from freedom when the refrigerator door swings shut.

“Well,” Grayson says calmly with his back still toward me, his voice rough with sleep, sending an entirely inappropriate shiver down my spine, “this is a little insulting.”

I freeze.

Slowly, he turns around, and every coherent thought leaves my body.

He’s wearing glasses.