Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 151044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
I needed aspirin.
Dragging my leg to the edge of the bed, I dropped my aching foot to the rug and my body started to slide.
“It’s happening… Uh-oh—oomph.” I landed in a tangle of twisted limbs.
A wave of nausea swept over me. Pinching my nose and breathing deliberately, I waited for the woozy sensation to pass.
With the dexterity and grace of a newborn calf, I tried to push myself up. Gravity was a mother fucker. Face-planting seemed the best option, so I collapsed into a broken downward-facing dog with my cheek on the carpet and my ass in the air.
“Why is this happening to me?”
“Shut. Up.”
My breathing stilled. Something wasn’t right. That was not the deep baritone or sensitive language of my beautifully indulgent fiancée.
I peeled my plastered eyelashes apart and braved the blinding sun. “Ow, ow, ow, ow…” Blinking away the tears, I caught my breath. “Hale?”
When he didn’t answer, I shifted my weight onto my knees and peeked over the edge of the mattress. One bony, masculine foot poked out of the cotton mountain, hanging slightly off the bed. Was that Hale’s foot?
I poked it and he kicked. “Fuck off.”
Uh-oh.
I ducked, back pressed to the bed, panic racing through my veins. My chest chilled as if I smoked a pack of menthols. My ears were just playing tricks on me. “Um, babe?”
“If you don’t shut the fuck up and quit poking me I’m going to throw you out that window, Meyers.”
Oh, God. Not good. Hale would never call me Meyers. But I knew who would.
I scrubbed my eye sockets with the heels of my palms as if that might clear up my memories.
It had to be Hale.
Had to be.
Or…
No, it abso-fucking-lutely could only be Hale.
Right?
Oh, God.
I faced the bed again, still kneeling on the floor, and fisted the covers. Slowly, I pulled the blankets. “Please be Hale. Please be Hale. Please be Hale. Please be Hale.”
A glimpse of sun-bleached hair brought swift relief. Then it capsized as Barrett’s face came into view. “Barrett!” I screamed. “What are you doing in my bed?”
Hale’s brother catapulted upright. “What the fuck?”
My arms worked like windmills as I slipped on an empty beer bottle. “Shit! Why are you in my room?” Mayday! This was a major fucking mayday!
“Stop screaming, you lunatic!”
I slapped a hand over my mouth, eyes wide as I stared at acres upon acres of chiseled man-chest. “Where are your clothes?” My panicked words muffled against my hand.
“Jesus, Meyers! You don’t wake a guy up like that.” Barrett barked in an abused voice full of gravel, vinegar, and vitriol. “You’ve got the lungs of a harpy.” He groaned and gripped his head, looking as rough as I felt.
I staggered, either still drunk or dealing with a massive case of vertigo. “Gah, my fucking head.”
“What the hell did we do last night?”
My foot landed on something sharp and I tripped over a dingy high heel. My eyes widened. Nooooo! My poor rehearsal shoes. They were no longer white. Blotched and deformed, they lay discarded like biohazards on the wet floor.
“Why is the carpet wet? Where are we? And where’s your shirt?” Questions downloaded like data into my pickled brain.
Barrett peeked under the covers. “It’s probably with my pants.”
“You’re naked under there?”
“That’s how I sleep. You have to stop shouting.”
“Why are you in my bed?”
“This isn’t your room.” He glanced about the room, his face scrunched in confusion. “Technically, I think it’s my bed.”
Was it? We both looked unsure. But this definitely wasn’t the penthouse I’d been occupying, so that sounded right. But why was I here? And why was the room trashed?
Pizza boxes and beer bottles littered the burgundy carpet. I squinted and cocked my head. Was that a fuchsia wig? Spotting my crumpled rehearsal dinner dress on the floor, I sucked in a sharp breath!
My gaze shot to my chest. Thank fuck it was covered in a T-shirt.
I frowned, stretching the material wide so I could read the upside-down print. Word to your Muggle? “What the…? Did I rob Dumbledore?”
Barrett massaged his temples. “If you don’t stop talking in that shrill voice, I’m going to suffocate you.”
Shrill? I scoffed. I was not shrill. Panicked, yes. But shrill?
Focus Rayne!
I rubbed my head. “I have to think. Do you remember anything from last night?”
“I—”
I held up a hand. “Shh, shh, shh!” The canned harmony of the Dixie Cups’ broke the silence as my phone vibrated from somewhere in the abyss of discarded clothes and garbage.
I followed the tune as they sang about going to the chapel, stubbing my battered toes on bottles and slipping into a partial split when I stepped on a half-eaten slice of pizza.
Because that was a normal thing to find on the floor…
The chorus of Chapel of Love muffled from deep within the mess and Barrett growled, covering his ears. “Make it stop!”