Page 128 of Chaos

For the first time, she isn’t a dream.

I can’t rememberthe last time I woke up in someone else’s bed.

Likely because I’ve never woken up in someone else’s bed. Not anyone who wasn’t related to me, anyway.

It’s not my style. I’m a creature of comfort, of familiarity, and strange men—any man—mussing my sheets is neither of those things. Nor is waking up somewhere I don’t remember falling asleep.

Although, on this unique occasion, I don’t feel all that disconcerted.

For all of a few seconds, that is.

The moment the sleepy fog clears from my mind, a flare of panic overwhelms it.

Slowly sitting up, I mouth a silent curse. I swipe at my eyes, blinking a few times to confirm that I am, in fact, staring at Finn.

In his room.

In his bed.

And as stealthily as I’m capable of, channelling all of those sneaky teenage years, I slip out of it.

The very second my bare feet hit the floor, Finn groans.

I freeze. Squinting at the half-naked man sprawled on his back, I will his eyes to remain closed. As he lazily stretches one arm towards me, I hold my breath. When his fingers glide across warm, empty sheets, he frowns. And when he cracks open an eye to find me kneeling on the edge of his bed, he murmurs, “You’re here.”

My heart plummets.

He doesn’t remember. Obviously, he doesn’t remember. He was fucking plastered.

Mortification painting me with a red-hot stain, I scramble to stand only for a firm grip to lock around my thigh and hold me in place.

With his free hand, Finn pushes himself upright. “I didn’t think you’d stay.”

I stare at his hand, at the thumb stroking a cluster of freckles revealed by the ridden-up bridesmaids dress I’m still fucking wearing. “You asked me to.”

“That easy, huh?”

Lifting my gaze, I struggle to swallow. Fuck me, it’s too early for this, for that tone. And fuck him too because he’s too hungover to look that good. Nothing but a pair of tight boxers and a tangled sheet covering him. Sun streaming in through the uncurtained window and bathing dark skin in golden light. That lazy, sated expression.

Sex.

Morning sex.

That’s where my mind goes, it imagines lazy, slow morning sex that I’ve never had, but I suddenly yearn to try.

Finn coughs.

Hastily averting my gaze, I’m just as quick to shake off his grip and rise on shaky legs that don’t get any steadier when he rises too. With him standing on one side of the bed and me on the other, we lock gazes across the mattress, another battle of wills occurring, one I already know I’m going to lose. I already know that if he opens his mouth, if I give him the chance too, I’m done.

Tell me when you’re sober, I said.

Idiot.

I didn’t think he would remember. I wasbankingon him not remembering, but he does. Oh, he more than remembers. He’s going to do it, he’s going to repeat all those lovely, disarming things, in the light of day this time, no alcohol clouding his judgment, and I’m notmaybegoing to believe him. I will believe him.

He was right. What he said yesterday. I don’t want to believe him.

It’s so,somuch easier not to.

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