Page 55 of All Twerk, No Play

You shut me out.

Because you’re my best friend.

I’m staying here. I love it here.

I asked Grace to marry me.

To the two most important women …

And then … Waking up in my bed, mouth tinged with bitter regret.

Not to mention the pounding headache, body aching, lights too bright, unsteady stomach …

Wearing a shirt that said Navy … Navy …

Eric crooned and I wasn't alarmed, as if I already knew he was here. Maybe the only good part of this hangover was waking up to his angelic voice.

I cracked an eyelid again—ugh, even that hurt—and looked through the French doors onto my terrace, expecting to see delivery boxes filled with the outdoor living room set I’d ordered.

Eric stretched out on a newly-assembled teak sofa, his serene expression tilted towards the spring sun. His frustratingly perfect voice sang Beatles lyrics to Prudence about greeting the brand new day …

Right. Jurisprudence’s pillow was empty, because that little cuddle whore was curled up on his chest, his forefinger rubbing her chin.

I pressed my palm into my forehead. What the fuck happened last night?

When I let out an involuntary groan, he sat up and a warm smile spread across his face. I pulled the blanket over my head to block his radiance.

His voice rumbled from my doorway. “I have Gatorade and ibuprofen.”

“Leave it and go home,” I croaked from under the blanket, voice like shredded glass. “You’ve done enough.”

“You told me that when you said that, I should ignore you.”

“No, I didn’t."

“You said you’d deny it but you wanted me to stay.”

I grumbled my disagreement.

“Come take this ibuprofen, would you?”

When he tugged gently on the blankets, I sat up with a scowl and begrudgingly took the medicine. I bet I looked like trash.

He hovered beside the bed. “This is exactly how I told you it would play out.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Last night I predicted you wouldn’t want me here. You were adamant, you made me promise to come back after boot camp. In fact, you …”

The fondness lingered on his face as his hand shuffled on my nightstand, next to a tray of food. My pulse spiked with nerves that he’d open the top drawer, but instead he handed a crumpled paper across the bed.

“You told me to give you this if you fought me.” I took the paper, which looked like sloppy squiggles. When I squinted, he chuckled. “You were convinced you’d understand.”

I turned the paper clockwise twice and recognized my shorthand symbols: “X b Cz ≠ Sp” followed by a shitty sketch of a dog.

Don’t be a bitch to Cruz,Drunk Victoria told me.He’s not Spencer.

The rest I couldn't decode: “Cz f~ Ac + Nc.” And I’d drawn a heart. I tapped my forehead with my index finger and winced at the jolt of pain.

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