“No!” Matt laughs, and for a second there, I’m wondering if he finds the idea of sexing me truly hilarious. He’s certainly laughing hard enough. “No, you stripped your clothes off. Actually, you got partway—your pants—before you fell down and threw up all over yourself.”
“I did not.”
“You did. And on my rug. Anyway, you wanted to get into bed, and I figured that was safer than letting you fall down again and actually hurting yourself. Only I wasn’t about to let you get into bed with puke on your clothes. Don’t worry,” he adds when I just about faint. “I was a good boy and didn’t peek. Notice how bundled up you were. We weren’t even sharing a blanket.”
He’s right about that. I was pretty much a burrito in my blanket while he’s still covered in another one. That bodes well.
Even so, I have no choice but to put my hand over my face and shake my head. I can barely take a peek at him from between my fingers.
Though I do take a peek, and what I see almost makes me forget how bad my head feels and how I wish I hadn’t had so much to drink. I dated in college, but they were just boys.
Matt? He’s all man. His brown hair’s a little mussed. His cheeks are covered in scruff that only makes him harder to resist. His eyes, I notice, aren’t brown like I thought they were. They’re hazel, and in my writer’s mind, I imagine them changing color depending on the light and what he’s wearing.
Has a man ever looked better in the morning? Especially shirtless, which definitely works in his favor.
It only makes me feel worse, to be honest. “I’m so embarrassed.”
He’s got it all together, and he looks great while I’m the messy chick from across the hall who threw up all over his apartment.
“You don’t have to be. This sort of thing happens. If anything, I’m glad we hung out, and I finally know what you do for a living. I’ve gotta be honest. I thought you were either a flight attendant or a stripper.”
“A stripper?”
“Don’t worry; your performance last night would’ve killed that theory even if you hadn’t already told me you’re a writer.” He snickers, but he’s not being mean. Playful, if anything. “You have really odd hours. I’ve noticed things about you too. You’re not the only one who pays attention.”
I don’t know if that’s a compliment or what.
“And you’ve been a good neighbor on one account, for sure.”
“What’s that?”
“You order a lot of Chinese food. It’s gotten to the point where if you order, the restaurant calls me to see if I want anything too. And they waive my delivery fee.”
“No fair!” It’s really not either since those fees can add up.
He shrugs. “Next time you order lunch, maybe we could eat together. I work from home, same as you. It’s lonely sometimes.”
“Ha!” I blurt. “You’re lonely? I’ve heard you going in and out at night. You’ve got quite the healthy social life going on. I can even smell your cologne sometimes. It’s not hang-out-at-home-alone cologne. Let’s not even get started on how my office is on the other side of this wall.” I point to the wall in question. “And some of the girls you bring home aren’t exactly quiet.”
“Forget being a writer.” He smirks. “You should be a detective.”
“Funny.” I smirk right back with a roll of my eyes. “And now that I’m thinking more clearly, why are you shirtless?” I wrap myself a little tighter in my—no, his—blanket and try to look as dignified as I can.
He looks down at himself, like he didn’t know he was shirtless until just this second. “Oh, that. You puked on my shirt too. The one I put on after you passed out but before you decided to treat me to a clumsy striptease. I figured skin was easier to clean, so I’d better stay shirtless until I knew for sure you weren’t going to spew again.”
With that, he sits up and throws his legs over the side of the bed. Phoebe must hear the movement of the springs because she lets out a bark in response. “I’ve gotta go take Phoebe for her run. Don’t forget to drink plenty of water today, okay?”
I don’t have the chance to respond before he stands.
Oh boy. I wasn’t prepared for this. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts that leave little to the imagination.
And I’m a writer. I have a very good imagination. So good of an imagination in fact that I have to turn my back before the sight of Matt doing something as innocent as putting his clothes on makes my blood simmer dangerously.
The second he and Phoebe are out the door, I grab for the clothes folded neatly on a chair near the bed. They’re freshly laundered and everything. This guy … what’s his deal? I can’t get a handle on him.
Now’s not the time for that anyway. I grab the clothes and my computer, sitting at the bottom of the pile, and don’t even bother getting dressed before hauling my embarrassed ass across the hall and collapsing into bed.
Maybe I’ll get lucky, and by the time I wake up, my problems will have cleared themselves up. A girl can dream.
CHAPTER FOUR
The second time I wake up, the sun isn’t a problem anymore. Whoops. I slept the day away. One of the benefits of being a full-time writer. There are lots of benefits to it really.
Except I can’t think of any others off the top of my head since I have the same problem I had before I fell asleep. I have no product to sell to my editor.
There are a few texts on my phone, which came in while I slept, along with three missed calls from my best friend. I know Hayley’s not going to stop calling until I acknowledge her, so I take care of her first while sipping a bottle of water. Matt was right. I need a lot more of this.
“You sound like you were asleep,” Hayley observes within three seconds of answering. “You forgot to call me yesterday, you know.”
“I did?”
“Sure! You were supposed to tell me all about the celebration at your editor’s yesterday. So, how much bigger is your advance this time?”
Ouch. “It’s … not.”
“Not bigger?”
“Not at all,” I sigh. “It didn’t go well. The whole day was one disaster after another.”
I know better than to expect long-drawn-out professions of sympathy by now. Hayley’s not that sort of girl.
“It sounds like you need a night out,” she decides, and I can tell from her tone of voice that she’s not kidding around. No excuses will be accepted.
Though I’m still tempted to give her one. Do I really feel like going to the trouble of getting dressed up and socializing? Maybe she’ll buy it if I tell her I’m sick.
Except, physically, I feel better than I have any right to feel after the night I spent. Hours of unbroken sleep will do that for a person, I guess. And she’s not wrong. I could use a little fun in my life after the events of the last day or so.
The well-timed growling of my stomach seals the deal. “So long as it includes dinner,” I reply rather than turning her down.
She knows me well, rattling off where she wants to meet up like she knew in advance I’d make dinner my condition. “See you in an hour. Look hot.”