Page 11 of Snared

I couldn’t describe what was currently happening in my mouth, but it maybe tasted like tequila.

Tequila was the devil. We never had a good track record.

What the fuck had happened the night before?

I had a vague memory of walking the grounds with the guys, hitting the Strip, grabbing dinner, then drinks.

I groaned again.

No.

Wait.

That wasn’t me.

I bolted upright.

Oh fuck, my head screamed.

Or maybe that had been out loud because I wasn’t alone in this very nice hotel bed.

I looked over my shoulder.

Tousled dark hair and a broad bare back that tapered down into a slim waist, the rest disappearing under the sheets, met my hungover gaze. He was gorgeous.

And familiar.

I searched my fogginess.

Troy?

For the love of everything, please tell me I did not hook up with my ex, the man who destroyed my heart years ago.

“Fucking hell,” a gravelly—not Troy—voice muttered.

I pressed back against the headboard in horror as Josh twisted to face me while raking his hand through his hair.

“What the actual fuck?” I yelled. Then I grabbed my head again.

“Charlie? Why are you so fucking loud?” he grumbled. “And why are you in my room?”

He paused, his eyes traveling down to see my fingers clutching the sheet. He bolted up, grabbing the fabric as it pooled at his waist.

“Your room? Why would I be in your room? We must be in mine,” I said, trying to ignore his bare chest. And those arms.

Fucking hell, why did he have to have great arms?

“That’s my suitcase over there,” he said, pointing toward the wall across from the foot of the bed.

But all I could focus on was the sunlight streaming in from the window and highlighting a ring on his finger.

On his ring finger.

No.

No.

No.

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