Page 8 of Drunk Dialing My Enemy

Miraculously, we’ve reached my front porch. I search my pocket for my keys with one hand. Katie leans on the door for support, looking up at me with those chocolate brown eyes.

“You were worried I’d get hurt?” she asks me.

“Of course I was,” I tell her. “Why else would I demolish the bridge?”

“Because you knew I loved it,” she says woundedly. “And you hate me.”

It hurts me to hear her say this. She looks like she really means it. Every word. It’s taking all of my restraint not to touch her right now. I want to pull her into an embrace and kiss her, show her just how much Idon’thate her. But she’s drunk. She doesn’t know how to say yes right now. And I don’t want her to wake up tomorrow and regret yetanotherkiss with me.

“I don’t hate you, firecracker,” I say.

She smiles weakly.

“You haven’t called me ‘firecracker’ in so long. I thought you’d forgotten the nickname.”

“Honey, I could never forget anything about you. That’s the whole problem.”

CHAPTER 5

KATIE

I wakeup in a man’s bedroom. At least, I suspect it’s a man’s bedroom because the interior decor is minimal and utilitarian. The bedsheets are plaid flannel and match the curtains on the wall. There’s a nightstand and matching dresser that appear to be handmade. On top of the nightstand there’s a glass of ice water and two ibuprofen beside it. When I sit up, I realize why. I’m hungover.

A first for me, because I’ve never had more than one or two drinks at a time. Bits and pieces of last night come into focus. I remember Heather being a jerk. Dot’s concerned face. The music, the neon lights…

There are pieces of last night that aren’t making sense, though. For instance, for some reason, my brain seems to think that I met Reba McEntire last night. And…Darren was there, too? Why would Darren be at a bachelorette party?

And then the rest of the night begins to come back to me. And I realize that not only am I waking up in a man’s bed – the man is Darren Baker himself.

I gasp, looking around the room once again. I recognize the jacket slung over the back of a chair, the wristwatch that’s sittingon top of the dresser. And now I know why the smell of the sheets is so familiar. It’s the smell of him.

What the hell happened last night? I swear, if I lost my virginity to Darren Baker and I was too drunk to preserve that memory, I might cry.

Darren opens the door, bringing in a paper bag from Dolly’s Diner. I sit up.

“Did we have sex?”

He looks at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“Absolutely not. Why do you keep asking me about sex? You must have asked me ten times last night alone.”

“Oh no. I was begging you for sex?”

“Not begging, exactly,” he says, putting the food bag on the nightstand and rubbing his chin. “More like you kept forgetting what was going on, and were curious if we had some sort of plan to sleep together. You were very drunk last night.”

“I can tell. My head is killing me.”

“Take that medicine,” he instructs me, opening the food bag. “And eat. Eating always helps.”

“It does?”

“You’ve never had a hangover before?”

I start to shake my head but the movement makes my head pound harder.

“I don’t drink much,” I say. “A few drinks a year, just at social events. Heather knew that. Do you think she knew she was overserving me?”

“If Heather is that pointy chick from the bar, yeah,” he replies flatly, handing me a breakfast burrito wrapped in foil. “I think you need to stay away from Heather. She’s not a real friend.”

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