Page 27 of Harper

These aren’t my sheets.

Suddenly my brain connects with my body, and I bolt upright in this strange bed, gasping at the sharp throbbing in my head as I look around an unfamiliar bedroom.

“Jesus,” I murmur. “What happened last night?”

“We got drunk,” answers a voice I’d know anywhere at any time under any circumstances.

Joe Raven.

Slowly, I turn my head to find him standing in the doorway of the room. He’s wearing black running shorts and a gray sweatshirt, with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His long black hair is back in a rubber band, his arms are brown from the summer sun, and his dark-roast coffee-colored eyes stare back at me with amusement.

Jesus, he’s fine, I think, biting my lower lip in appreciation. It takes my mushy brain a second to shut down this train of thought. No, Harper. Not fine. Absolutely not. Unacceptable observation.

“Harp? You okay?”

“My head is killing me,” I groan. And where am I? “Is this…I mean—am I lying in your…”

“Bed?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah.”

“Whatthefuck?” I whisper, my head drooping forward as I rub my temples gently.

I hear him cross the room, open a door, turn on a faucet, and rattle around in a cabinet. Suddenly, his hand appears in my limited field of vision holding three Advil tablets. I take them gratefully and shove them in my mouth, reaching blindly for the glass of water I’m confident he’s holding in his other hand. I gulp greedily, only coming up for air when the glass is empty.

Not sure where to look, I clasp the glass in my lap and stare at it.

“What happened?” I whisper. “Did we…?”

“Did we what?” he asks, gently prying the glass out of my hands.

“Joe,” I say, looking up at him, my heart throbbing painfully in my chest. “Did we…?”

“Have sex?” he asks. He lets the question linger there for an agonizing second before shaking his head. “No.” He screws up his face at me, crossing his arms over his chest again. “Who do you think I am, Harp?”

I know who you are; I’m just not so sure about myself sometimes.

“No offense. I just had to make sure.”

“None taken,” he says, an edge in his voice. “I’m not so hard up that I have to take advantage of comatose women.”

Huh. What does that mean? I wince. I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with whether or not Joe’s sleeping with someone right now. I make a mental note to wonder about this later.

“Sorry,” I mutter, closing my eyes. “Um…where did you sleep?”

“On the couch.”

Oh. Good. But strangely, I don’t feel good about this. Or relieved. I just feel…sort of disappointed.

“Listen, Harp, I’ve got twenty minutes to grab a shower, get dressed, and go to work,” Joe says. I look up at him and see him tug at the waistband of his shorts. He glances at me from under long, thick, black lashes. Fucking hot. “You’re more than welcome to stay. I mean, there’s nothing here you haven’t seen before—”

“No!” I yelp. “Nope. No. I’m leaving. I’m going. I need to go home. I’ve already put you out enough.” I scramble out of Joe’s bed, only to discover I’m wearing a T-shirt that isn’t mine, and panties that are, thank God. Did he take off my bra? Goose bumps rise up on my arms at the thought of Joe seeing my naked breasts after a decade. I have a lot of questions, but only one that I need answered right this second. “Where are my clothes?”

“They’re in the dryer,” he says. “Should be ready by now.”

“Why’re they in the dryer?”

“Because you puked on them. And me.”

Oh. My. God. Could this morning get any weirder or more embarrassing?

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