Page 41 of Meet Hate Love
“Do you need the bathroom?” Vance’s deep voice came from the alcove.
So much for escaping before he woke up. I guess I could—holy fuckballs. My hormones went berserk when he stepped around the corner in nothing but a pair of bright-green boxer shorts—tanned skin, huge pecs, and carved abs with a dusting of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waist of his shorts. I fought to keep my jaw from falling open. It wasn’t like I didn’t know the man was in good shape; that much had been obvious through his work clothes, plus I’d seen the gym keycard on Mr. Muscle’s office keys. But by the looks of it, the man lived there.
I took a mental snapshot of him bare-chested with messy bed hair because that sight was absolutely—in the words of Margot—clit-flicker material.
He lifted a dark brow like he expected me to say something. Because, right, he’d asked me a question. A question I couldn’t recall because muscles evidently made me stupid. “Do I need what?” I asked.
“The bathroom. I need to take a shower.”
“Oh. No. Go ahead.”
When he passed by the bed, sunlight hit his back, casting shadows on every indent of tattooed—yes, tattooed—muscle. An antique map with both sides of the globe drawn in intricate detail spanned the width of his broad shoulders.
Vance had been the last man I’d expected to have ink. Possibly because it was a weakness, something my mother had always said only naughty bad boys had. And what woman didn’t love a bit of a naughty bad boy?
I waited until the bathroom door shut behind him before I flopped back against the headboard and fanned myself. So, Vance Morgan wasn’t the gaping butthole I’d allowed myself to believe. He wasn’t absolutely awful to be around—quite the contrary. He smelled incredible. And now the bastard had back tattoos! Great. The odds of me not accidentally—accidentally because a decision made on pure hormones could be called nothing less—sleeping with him, with or without the help of alcohol, were not stacking in my favor here.
The shower cut on. Water pummeled the tiles like an alarm, telling me the hot man in the room was now buck-naked. Naked with a stream of steaming water cascading over all that carved muscle.
“Get ahold of yourself, Blake.”
Giving myself a quick slap on the cheek, I went back to my phone to distract myself. While I’d been gawking at Vance, Margot had sent three links. Each followed by a string of laughing-crying and skull emojis.
You have to watch that last one. It is incredible.
Against my better judgment, I clicked the link.
A scream sounded through the small phone speaker just before the opening notes of Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” bled through. The video panned away from the multitude of rats darting through the dark to my circling a bottle of wine above my head like a lasso before I chucked it. And then the image of my flailing body turned into a montage of colored still frames, like some horrible 80s music video.
Less than twenty-four hours after the adrenaline boner incident, some YouTuber made the entire ordeal into a music video aptly named: “Adrenaline Boner Girl.” And the freaking thing already had over two million hits.
I facepalmed while whispering, “Fuck my life.” Because, really, just fuck my life at this point. Out of all the ways a woman could imagine she’d go viral, this was not one that had ever crossed my mind, and yet, here I was.
A text ribbon popped up over the video.
I can’t stop laughing. The panic in your voice…
Amanda is going to see this.
Of course she is…
Just then, the chorus hit. But it wasn’t Whitney’s powerhouse voice. It was an auto-tuned version of my panicked explanation of why Vance had his hard dick—which it seemed no one even saw—out in the middle of the Champ de Mars.
“A-dre-na-line boner. Blood thirsty rats, adrenaline boner.A-dre-na-line boner. Blood thirsty rats, adrenaline boner.” And instead of the whole part where the backup singers gleefully sang, “somebody-ooh.” It was a mix-up of, “Urinatingman. Urinatingman.”
Hands down, the most terrible thing I’d ever heard in my life. May Whitney’s soul forever rest in peace. But since it was so awful, I could just imagine Margot curled into a fetal position, cackling.
You’re playing it on a loop, aren’t you?
You singing ‘adrenaline boner’ is my new ringtone.
Incredible. I’m not getting you a keychain now. You have a ringtone to commemorate our jab at blackmailing.
This is better than a keychain, my friend. So much better.
Groaning, I sank down into the bed and pulled the duvet over my head. “This is ridiculous.” I lay beneath the covers, replaying last night in my head and contemplating my life. One day in Paris and I’d humiliated myself, and I’m not talking about the stupid video. That was nothing compared to my telling Vance I floated in a sea of “I really want to fuck you.”
Definitely spending the day alone…
