Page 77 of Filthy Player

“I did,” I whispered. I swayed in the shower, threw out a hand to the wall to stop me from falling and closed my eyes.

“Go to bed drunk girl. I got you.”

I curled into him, inhaled his cologne. God, how did he smell so good, cuddle me so hard when I probably reeked of vomit.

“Beaux—”

“We’ll talk in the morning.”

“K.” I yawned, shoved my body to his, aligning us from shoulder to hip and threw a leg over his. “I love you.”

“Ah, hell.”

I did.

I totally told Beaux I loved him.

And worse?

I couldn’t remember if he said it back.

“Damn it,” I cursed again, slapped off the water and grabbed a towel I’d draped over the shower curtain. “He didn’t say anything,” I told the cloudy mirror as I dried off. “He didn’t say a thing and he didn’t bring it up this morning.”

How utterly, horrifically embarrassing.

I could take it back. Blame it on being drunk, out of my mind, thinking of something else. Maybe someone else. Like my dad. Or Mike.

But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

Telling someone you love them wasn’t the most embarrassing thing I’d ever experienced, even if it took me awhile to remember I said it in the first place, but I wouldn’t take it back. I wouldn’t diminish how I felt in that way.

I swiped the mirror again until my hazy reflection stared back at me.

“I’ll just pretend it didn’t happen,” I told myself. Then I nodded, needing the agreement from the woman in the mirror. “Yup. Pretend it didn’t happen. Move on. Forget it.”

Yup.

Brave, independent girl, I was. That was totally my game plan.

I finished drying off, moisturizing the crap out of my dehydrated body, and it wasn’t until I was done I saw the Advil Beaux had dropped off on my small and cluttered vanity top.

Tossing them back, I pretended they were confidence pills. Forgetful pills. Time-rewind pills.

Those would be awesome.

But since I didn’t have magic beans or special little red pills or a time machine, I hurried to my bedroom, feeling slightly more human and less zombie like, threw on a pair of pale blue cut-off sweat shorts and gray Tarheel’s sweatshirt.

Then I headed downstairs. And saw a view that was eerily similar of last night.

Melanie, Beaux, and my dad were sitting around the table, but instead of playing cards in their hands, they were chowing down on eggs and toast … and was that biscuits and gravy?

My stomach grumbled.

Yes. Grease, grease, and more grease. It was exactly what the doctor ordered.

“Hey,” I mumbled to everyone. “Good morning.”

“No it isn’t,” Melanie mumbled. She looked almost as bad as me and I winked at her as I passed.

---