Page 26 of Studious
Then I look at the clock and realize it’s still early. But I’m exhausted from a long week and from carrying Alden around like a bride. I pad out to the kitchen and feed Mamacita, then make a bed on the couch, turning on the television with the volume low—not that Alden’s likely to notice anything short of the smoke alarms going off.
My phone sounds with a call from Charlie. “You at One yet?”
“Nah, you’ll have to party without me tonight.”
Silence. Then, “Are you serious? What the hell? You’re never one to turn down going out.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, I know. But I had something come up.”
“Something? Or someone?”
“Kind of both. The new bookkeeper had a little too much happy hour and needed someone to babysit him while he slept it off.” I hope I’m not giving away any secrets. But there were plenty of people there tonight who saw. And besides, Charlie’s a good guy.
“Oops.”
“Oops is right. And since I don’t know where he lives, I brought him home with me.”
“Uh… you could’ve looked in his wallet.”
I blink.
He laughs. “Didn’t think of that one, did you.”
“No,” I admit. “I just wanted to get him somewhere safe.”
“Well, then maybe it’s a good thing you were there. Who knows what kind of trouble he would’ve gotten in.”
“I know, right?” I scratch my belly. “Anyway, it’s an early night for me. Catch up with you tomorrow night?”
“You got it.”
We hang up, and I let myself drift off to the sounds of a car show, my cat curled up at my feet.
CHAPTER7
Alden
Um.
Where am I?
Judging by the light, it’s late morning, and I’m in a huge bed that isn’t mine. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know whose bed this is. My heart revs to a panic, and then I clutch the sheets and groan.
Oh, fuck. My head hurts so bad. I feel like there’s cement in my blood. I’m both nauseated and not able to puke.
Rubbing my face with my hands, I sit up, wincing, and notice the bottle of water and another bottle of pain reliever on the bedside table and my clothes neatly hung over a nearby chair.
Then I clutch at my chest. I’m not wearing my own clothes. I’m wearing a T-shirt that is soft and thick and too large for me. What the hell?
Why does my mouth taste like a sewer? Actually, I think a sewer might taste better. I went on a field trip to a sewage treatment plant for an environmental studies class in college, and it gave me faith in humanity because of how much cleaner the treatment leaves the water.
Thinking is a challenge, but I eventually decide that hydration and pain relief are important. After a brief battle with the Advil cap, I swallow a few pills and about half the bottle of water. Then I swing my feet out of bed and almost step on a cat, who yowls at me.
“Hello?” I call. “Um…”
I hear a low chuckle and smell sizzling bacon along with coffee. If I weren’t so hungover—I’m assuming that’s what this feeling is—food would be welcome. Right now, though, the thought makes my stomach lurch.
Still, I can’t hide in some unknown person’s bedroom forever. I venture into the hallway, where I spot a bathroom and make grateful use of the facilities before following the breakfast smells through a nicely furnished living room. As I enter the sunlit kitchen beyond, I look up and see the man of my dreams standing in front of the stove, wearing nothing but boxer shorts. I grip the nearest surface, a chair back, for balance. “Danny,” I say hoarsely. “What? How?”
