Page 1 of Loco

Prologue

Sayla

The moment my brain began its slow crawl out of unconsciousness, memories from last night’s girls’ night out started storming my fragile, hungover mind like an army with zero mercy. It was a full-on invasion, and I was helpless to stop it.

I wasn’t a heavy or regular drinker, but sometimes life threw a curveball, and a cocktail (or five) became the only logical response. Stressful weeks, birthdays, breakups, promotions, engagements, bachelorettes, new babies, bad days, good days—hell, even Tuesdays could sometimes qualify.

A giggle bubbled up at the memory of Jacinda accidentally kneeing some poor guy in the family jewels. The sound barely made it out before a sharp pain shot through my skull, effectively cutting me off. Note to self: giggling was strictly off-limits today. My throat felt like I’d swallowed a desert, my head throbbed in protest of my existence, and for a brief moment, I wonderedif hangover-induced brain quakes were a legitimate medical condition.

More importantly, I couldn’t for the life of me remember who Jacinda’s unfortunate victim had been.

Groaning, I rolled onto my side—only to be hit with a scent I knew all too well. It wasn’t just the sheets that smelled like it. The entire damn pillow next to mine held the distinct, unmistakable scent of Ralph Lauren’s Safari for Men. My pulse stuttered. My stomach clenched. Because there was only one person I knew who wore that cologne, and I’d sworn after the last time that I’d never let him in my bed again.

I sat up so fast that my brain rattled like a loose marble inside my skull. Wincing, I pressed a hand to my forehead, trying to steady myself as I took stock of my surroundings. The bed was empty except for me, but there was an indent where a head had been. A shadow of his presence lingered in my sheets like a cruel joke.

Shit.

Growling, I threw the blanket off and attempted to stomp to the bathroom. But my body had other plans. The second my foot hit the floor, my head pulsed like a bass drum at a rock concert, and I realized my fragile state wasn’t built for aggressive movements. So instead, I settled for tiptoeing across the room like a pissed-off ballerina, mentally stomping with all the rage I couldn’t physically execute.

Once inside the bathroom, I turned the shower to a temperature just shy of scalding, stepping under the punishing spray in an attempt to drown my regrets. Not that I had time to wallow. Hangover or not, I had a full day ahead.

And, as if my self-loathing wasn’t already at an all-time high, I had an extra reason to be furious with myself for letting Roque Edwards—he-who-shall-not-be-named—back into my life, even for one night.

Last week, he’d escorted my not-so-nice neighbor into her house after their date, just like every other guy before him. It was practically a neighborhood rite of passage at this point. And while I had once harbored a very real, very ill-advised crush on Roque, I was not about to be another girl left in the dust while he entertained himself elsewhere.

So, I had done the only logical thing: I decided to move.

No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just a quick call to the real estate agent listing my dream house, a viewing, and an offer that was accepted almost immediately. The previous owner had passed away (peacefully, in a hospital, thank God), and his family was eager for a quick sale. My father had nearly combusted when he found out I’d bought the first house I’d looked at without consulting him. But I wasn’t normally impulsive, and I loved the place.

It was everything I hadn’t known I wanted. A charming brick home with crisp white shutters, an arched trellis wrapped in vibrant purple wisteria, and a backyard pool that was—thankfully—free of any mirrored walls like the ones Layla had to deal with in her new house.

The house was officially mine. I had four weeks to pack up my life, organize everything, and transition into homeownership—four weeks to move into a space that belonged to me for the first time in thirty-six years of life—not some landlord profiting off my hard work.

The funny thing was, I had always imagined myself in something sleek and modern—a new build—something with sharp angles and industrial lighting. But two years ago, I’d picked up a magazine showcasing a dreamy country kitchen, and that was it. The vision was set, and the dream was born. And now, with a single look, it had become a reality.

Fate worked in weird ways.

However, what was decidedly not fate was waking up with Roque’s cologne clinging to my sheets like a bad decision.

I didn’t even know if we’d slept together, and the fact that I couldn’t remember getting home was an unsettling first for me. I’d been drunk before—very drunk—but never so much that I lost entire chunks of my night.

But I had two options. I could sit here, wallowing in my bad choices, beating myself up for making yet another mistake with Roque Edwards. Or I could draw a damn line in the sand, learn from it, and never let it happen again.

I chose the latter.

With more force than necessary, I brushed my teeth until my gums protested, splashed my face with cold water, and scrubbed it dry with a vigor that should have removed not just water, but any lingering regret as well. Then, determined, I stomped back into my room—this time, for real—to continue packing.

This hangover wasn’t going to stop me.

Moving was about new beginnings and shedding the dead weight of the past. And Roque Edwards...he could, respectfully—respectfully—go fuck himself.

I had bigger things to focus on. Like making packing my absolute bitch.

I was a woman on a mission, and come hell or high water, I was getting out of here.

One

Roque

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