Jackson with his pants unzipped.

Jackson.

Jackson.

Jackson.

Jolting upright, my eyes fly open. The sudden rush of movement makes my head fall into my hands, and I wish the room would stop spinning.

He was here.

Jackson was here, in my room, and I have no idea how much or how little we did.

Why am I so stupid when it comes to this guy?

Half of me wants to remember, but the other half is too afraid of what I’ll find. My eyes catch on a piece of paper on my bedside table, and I scramble to reach for it, ignoring the feeling of my head spinning afterward. I squint one eye shut to ease the double-vision and start reading.

Margot,

Before you overthink everything, we didn’t have sex. You tried, but I stopped you from doing anything stupid. You don’t have to thank me. The memory of you on your knees in front of me is all the thanks I need.

I’m giving you my number again. For the love of God, keep it away from your tribe of cat-loving Taylor Swift fans. I’m still getting messages.

Here’s what’s going to happen.

You’re going to text me.

I’m going to leave a ticket for you. Come to the Orlando show on January 27. I’ll put the info below.

Take some Advil.

Jackson

January? Did I agree to go to one of his shows last night? Why would I do that, and what does it mean?

I stare at the page in my hands, reading and rereading the note as I try to make sense of everything. Letting the paper fall to my lap, I drop my head in my hands again. I need to remember what happened last night, but it’s all foggy—like watching the night unfold through a clouded lens.

My fingers gently tap against my forehead like they’re trying to unlock the code.

Think. Think. Think.

Jackson standing at my desk.

Kissing his neck.

Opening his pants just enough to . . . Oh, God.

I groan and rub the heel of my palm against my forehead like I can wash away the embarrassment.

Telling me no.

Holding my face in his hands.

Those eyes making me feel like they could see into my soul.

He’s mine.

He’s mine.