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Lily

*Every Now and Then I Fall Apart*

I greeted the day with a dull, throbbing ache, but it wasn’t in my head. It was between my legs. I woke up from a raunchy sex dream, writhing around and moaning. When I realized where I was and what had happened before Wes put me in bed last night, I groaned for another reason.

Oh, the shame.

A twenty-minute shower has done nothing to wash away the humiliating memory of blowing chunks and crying in front of my new boss and the sexiest man I’ve ever known. I may not remember the particulars, but I wish I could forget the way I felt. How do I bounce back from that?

By making breakfast.

By making the biggest breakfast I can make and force-feeding my sexy boss until he lapses into a food coma.

I’m wearing the huge vintage gray University of Oregon T-shirt he left for me at the foot of my bed last night. There’s a picture of an angry duck running through a big O on the front of it. It’s ducking great.Reeeaaaallysexy. But I’m not in the mood to pull on last night’s tight clothes, which probably still give off the scent of vodka and puke and regret.

Fortunately, I had a fresh pair of undies tucked away in my purse, in case I spent the night at Alecia’s. Which reminds me… While the pan heats up, I reach for my phone to text my friend.

Me: Morning! FYI I told my dad that I spent the night at your house. No joke. So, you know the drill in case he calls you. LOL. He won’t call you.

A couple of minutes later, I get a reply.

Alecia: Hey! You left out some pertinent info. If you aren’t at home and you aren’t here, then…

Me: At Wes’s house.

She immediately writes back.Whaaaaaat?! Wait. What?! Follow-up question. WHAT?!?! I demand details!

Me: LOL. Nothing to tell you, unless you want to know exactly how much I puked into a bush on the way here from the bar.

Alecia: Stop lying to a mother.

Me: Would never. Wes is a gentleman. And I am his assistant. I promise, you and Neal are the only ones of us who got laid last night.

Alecia:

Alecia: I promise our next girls’ night out will be less of a sausage party.

Me: Speaking of sausages, I’m making breakfast and it’s ready now. Later. Xo

I have made coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice. I’ve made scrambled eggs and turkey bacon and toast and gluten-free pancakes. I butter the toast and pancakes while they’re still warm, and now I will go upstairs to rouse the man of the house.

I really do like this house. It’s big but also cozy, unlike the Barnes family home. Not that this house is a mansion, but there’s a lot of space. It makes me wonder if he really only bought it with his father in mind or if he plans to populate it with a wife and kids someday. The thought makes me sad, and I refuse to get sad again—at least not in front of Wes.

I’ve got to get my sexy game face on—I’m just not entirely sure which game we’re playing anymore.

The stairs to the second floor are a bit creaky, but I am barefoot and light on my toes. I don’t hear anyone stirring up there. I had spent ten minutes checking under all of the furniture downstairs earlier, looking for that damn ginger cat who’s supposed to love me unconditionally. It wasn’t desperate of me at all. I find the first door in the upstairs hallway open and tiptoe to the doorway. Sunlight is streaming in through a crack in the curtains. The bedroom is big and masculine and no-nonsense but still warm and inviting. Just like Wes.

When my eyes land on the bed, I instantly regret not bringing my phone up with me, because I want to take a picture of this: Fanny Brice curled up on the pillow, resting her chin on Wes’s sleeping head. I’m not sure which of them I’m more jealous of.

There was a time when that cat slept with me on my pillow. There will probably never be a time when I use Wes’s forehead as a chin rest. But this scene is so stinking cute, I will remember it forever. I slowly creep over to the bed. Fanny’s eyes open, and she eyes me, cautiously at first. I stop and smile at her, and she rewards me with a slow blink. I take a few more steps toward her, and when she doesn’t move, I reach out to stroke her on the head. But she bolts out of the room.

When Wes opens his eyes, all he sees is an angry duck leaning over him. Or maybe he’s just staring directly at the curve of my boobs under the T-shirt. I give him a toothy smile as I run my fingers through my damp hair and straighten up.

“Hi. I was just trying to pet the cat, but she bolted.”

“Go Ducks,” he says, rubbing his eyes, his voice gravelly. He looks so sexy with morning stubble and bedhead; it just makes me mad.

“I made breakfast,” I say. “It’s ready.”