Page 3 of Upshot

Rand eases to his feet and loops his arm around my waist. “Maybe between the two of us, we can find our way back upstairs.”

We manage to weave back out of the bar without incident. When we reach the elevator, I stare at the numbers, trying to get them to stop swimming in front of me.

“Hang on, I’ll get this.” Rand pulls a pair of glasses out of his pocket and slides them onto his face. Placing a hand on each side of the panel, he squints at the numbers before finally selecting one.

“Going up,” I giggle when the elevator starts up. The motion makes me stumble into him. Or maybe it’s that last martini. Whatever. He catches me in his arms.

The doors open, and he takes my hand to walk down the hallway to his room. He opens the door and steps aside to let me enter first. It’s definitely a much nicer room than I have. There are two rooms to start: a living area and a bedroom through another door.

“So, I’ll start the coffee,” Rand says, closing the door. I watch as he heads toward a bar area in the corner.

“Ooh, minibar,” I exclaim. I mean, why would they put it there if they didn’t want us to make good use of it? Walking past him, I open the small refrigerator and pull out two miniature bottles of alcohol. Twisting off the tops, I chug one. The other bottle, I hold up to Rand’s lips.

“I thought we were having coffee?” he says before drinking the bottle in two swallows. He coughs. “What was that?”

“Vodka,” I answer, looking at the bottles.

“No wonder the room is starting to swim,” he mumbles.

“We should probably sit down,” I say.

Taking hold of his tie near his neck, I spin him around until his calves are touching the couch. With a gentle shove, I push him down onto the couch. I place a knee on either side of his thighs and straddle his lap. My balance is impressive for my state. Score me.

“See, isn’t this better?” I ask.

“So much better,” he answers, pulling me into a kiss.

two

RAND

What in the hell did I do last night to make my head hurt this bad? Grabbing the pillow next to me, I pull it over my face to hide the blinding light leaking in around the curtains. This pillow certainly doesn’t smell like mine. It smells familiar though. As a matter of fact, it smells faintly of the vague memory I have of a woman I met last night at the bar.

“Uuuuuu,” I moan and roll over. This is why I never drink to excess. My friends all tease me about being the lightweight in the group. For that reason, I’m usually the designated driver when we go out. Problem is, none of them were there to stop me. What possessed me to drink so much?

An even better question might be, why am I naked? I never sleep without at least underwear on. What happens if there’s a fire? Great. How many other self-imposed rules did I break last night?

I might be a lot of things, but I have rules that I never cross. I never get drunk, I never sleep naked in case there’s an emergency, and I never pick up random women in bars. But, number one is, I never have one-night stands.

My head is pounding from trying to sort this out. Maybe coffee will help make sense of it. It takes me three tries to finally make it into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. It’s a few more minutes before I feel confident enough to stand.

Opening the top drawer of the dresser, I pull out a pair of shorts. I slide them on and stagger into the living area. Stopping in the doorway, I take in the living room.

Last night’s clothes are thrown everywhere. Even my reading glasses. They’re sitting in a glass of something I truly hope is water. There’s one of the table lamps lying on the floor, a packet of coffee looks like it’s been used as confetti, and my tie is wrapped around the hook on the back of the bathroom door. Fucking hell, what did we do?

Leaning slowly until I can see my reflection in one of the mirrors, I sigh in relief. Yeah, I look like something the cat hacked up, but at least there’s no sign of a face tattoo. The only other thing missing from the room seems to be the woman I brought up here last night.

Brontë? At least she has a name that isn’t easy to forget. Based on the tie’s location, I might owe her an apology. Did she give me her last name? I rack my brain trying to remember.

I do remember a couple of things about her. Like her golden eyes and the way they twinkled when she was amused. How her laugh seemed to come from deep inside and is impossible to stifle. I definitely remember that amazing body.

But, the one thing I remember best? She had an accent. A twang? A southern twang? Or maybe it was more southwest. Whatever it was, it was sexy.

My cell phone blares behind me, and I almost jump out of my skin. Pressing a hand against my pounding head, I hunt around the room. I finally find it between the cushions of the couch. Checking the caller ID, I groan.

“What?” I moan.

“Henry? How was last night?” It’s my best friend and business partner Peter. He only calls me Henry when he believes I’m doing something bad. It’s been that way since we met at boarding school in middle school.

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