Page 66 of Rookie Recovery

Bowie: I’m coming over and I’m bringing hangover food.

What?

I sat up so fast the room gave a sickening lurch. Brady leaped off the bed like something exciting was about to happen. Maybe it was. He was coming ... Here? How? Why? When was the last time I’d cleaned? How did he even know where I lived—Katie. That conniving, wing-manning little busybody.

Jesus, my head hurt.

This was why I didn’t drink. At least I wasn’t puking. And I hadn’t puked anywhere last night, though my mouth tasted like a herd of zoo animals had tromped through and promptly died. I hadn’t done anything too stupid. I was home. And there was nobody in my bed—shit.

Holy shit.

A memory surfaced, one tucked into a dark little corner of the tail end of the night.

That …

That wasn’t ... Real, right?

I hadn’t ... Kissed Bowman?

Offered to get on my knees for him, take him home …

Shit.

What had I done? I hadn’t even decided what to say to him in my office, before we’d gotten Aaron’s texts. I’d been so sure I was going to call the whole thing off, cite professionalism and the age difference and … And I’d peered beneath the tousled blond hair, looked into those soft green eyes, and faltered.

Shit.

And now he was on his way? I nearly fell flat on my face as I dove out of bed and the sheets tangled around me. The floor plunged like a ship on a stormy sea under my feet; I was hungover. Couldn’t remember the last time I’d drank so much.

I needed water. And to brush my teeth because my mouth tasted horrible. And I needed to stop fucking panicking, except it was too late for that because I was well and truly panicking—

Deep breath, Sullivan. Bathroom. Go to the bathroom. Teeth first.

I followed the wise voice of my inner Jiminy Cricket or whatever guiding spirit helped hungover bachelors get their teeth brushed before their cute little blond friend—who they were definitely not into, hadn’t kissed, and hadn’t tried to blow—showed up with much-needed hangover food.

Okay, water next.

I stumbled out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, Brady hot on my heels, to slug down a full glass. Kind of wanted to gag, but did it, then got the coffee brewing. Was forcing down a second glass when someone banged on the door.

Brady skidded across the hardwood like a kid in socks, whining and wagging and jazzed as all hell.

Dammit! How had he gotten in here? Probably sweet-talked my doorman with his adorable British charm and heart-stopping smile. I slammed the glass down on the counter and scanned my eyes over the space. Nothing was too out of place, but there were a ton of papers on my coffee table—

“Open up, Kitty! Or I’m coming in. I know how to pick a lock.”

Of course he did. I dove across the room to shove a pair of gym socks out of sight under the couch, then wrenched the door open, Brady’s collar gripped in my left hand. “Bowman! What are you—”

“Wow, Kitty.” Bowman’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Is that all for me?”

Too late, I realized I was standing in the doorway in my underwear. Very, very much exposed, except for the dog in front of my knees. Dammit, inner-Jiminy! Why didn’t you tell me about this?

“Oh, um. Hi. Sorry.” I leapt back from the door, dragging my overenthusiastic pet with me. “This is Brady.”

I was not remembering the feel of his lips, the soft push of his tongue, or that I’d begged to take him home—And he’d refused. And now …

When Bowie’s eyes dropped down my bare chest to my wriggling golden retriever, his face lit up all over again. He opened his arms, and she leapt right out of my hangover-weakened grip. Crashed into him like they were old friends.

I tried not to notice how absolutely fucking adorable it was. Brady licked his cheeks, and he laughed as he crouched down to rub her ears.

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