Page 65 of Serving the Maestro

Okay...don’t freak out.

Blinking rapidly to let my eyes adjust to the room’s dim interior, I looked around. The small, cramped space was unfamiliar territory, but when I gave the man next to me a look, I recognized him.

Roger.

My skin prickled, my nausea increasing as I put two and two together. Goosebumps broke out across my flesh as I lurched off the bed and into the nearby open door, my feet cold against the chilly bathroom floor. Clamping a hand over my mouth, I fought back the urge to puke, forcing myself to breathe through my nose until the nausea eased.

Was he awake? I didn’t know. I was afraid to look back out there, too, because if I saw him awake, I’d have to talk to him.

We had slept together. How had that happened? I was sore between my thighs, and my head hurt. Sex and a couple of drinks could explain both, although yesterday, I wouldn’t have thought it possible that I’d be drunk enough to sleep with the man still snoring in the bed a few feet away.

Panic tried to overtake my mind once more, and I took another deep breath, counted to ten. Two more repetitions and I eased away from the wall and peeked around the door frame. He was still sleeping.

I braced myself against the wall and took another breath to prepare myself. The sight of a small trash can by the sink caught my eye just before I would have slipped out of the bathroom. Easing forward, I looked inside, and saw a ripped foil packed, a rubber—used.

Okay, well, that was good, right? We’d used protection, at least.

That small relief gave me the boost I needed to slide from the bathroom so I could find my clothes. I’d slept with Roger. We’d had all of one date, and I wasn’t even into him, but I’d slept with him.

Gathering my clothes, I moved to the farthest wall of the cramped studio apartment and dressed in the dark. My purse and shoes were easy to find, both of them tossed aside right inside the apartment. Grabbing them, along with my jacket, I ducked into the hallway and eased the door shut behind me. Silently, I pleaded, “Don’t wake up, don’t wake up, don’t wake up...”

Once I was out on the street, I could breathe easier, but I didn’t fully relax until the taxi driver I’d flagged down dropped me off in front of my building.

What had I done?

The sarcastic inner bitch told me, Well, instead of listening to me, you went out with Roger, got drunk, and decided to jump into bed with him.

I strode past the early morning staff handling the door and went straight for the elevator. It didn’t look like the walk of shame if I kept my chin up, right?

You might not let on to anybody watching you, but they aren’t the problem. You are.

“Go to hell,” I muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

Cheeks flushing, I looked over to see another tenant standing a few feet away, clad in a bright pink tracksuit. She had a white, fluffy dog with enormous eyes in her arms.

“Nothing, Ms. Hatfield,” I said. “Just talking to myself.”

She made a disapproving sound and shook her head as the doors slid open, and we went into the elevator.

I made it to my place without pausing to look at the apartment where Trent had stayed.

That was good because my control was shredding under the weight I carried.

Unlocking my door, I collapsed against it and slid to the floor.

“How in the hell did I end up in bed with Roger?”

My head was spinning, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the booze the night before or plain old shock from waking up in the wrong bed. I went to press my hands to my face but froze.

I could smell him on me. Lurching upright, I half-stumbled, half-ran to the bathroom, undressing as I went.

I had to get rid of that scent.

Bile churned in my belly, threatening to climb up my throat and spill out in a noxious explosion, but I battled it back. If I started puking, I might not stop.

My hands shook as I climbed into the shower and turned the water on. I made the temperature as hot as I could handle it. Despite the heat, I still felt cold inside.

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