Page 35 of Just My Type
“How are you so cheerful?” I ask moodily, shoving my hair back with an irritated grumble. “And what the fuck happened last night? Why are you in my bed? Did we have sex?” I demand.
Noah grins at me and reaches over, gathering my probably vomit covered hair in a ponytail. I’ve never worked as hard at anything as I do to suppress the shiver that runs through me at the feel of Noah’s hands raking through my hair.
“I’m always cheerful, Gorgeous. That’s just the way I roll. My memories of last night are…hazy at best, but we definitely didn’t have sex.”
I glance at him, my eyes drifting over his naked torso, down to his boxer briefs. “If you can’t remember anything, how can you be so sure?”
Now it’s his turn to rake his gaze over me as he finishes pulling my hair back. “First of all, you’re still dressed. And second of all, if I had sex with the most beautiful girl in the world, there’s no way I would forget it.” He gives me a look that can only be described as smoldering. “You wouldn’t forget it either.”
I’m trying mightily not to melt into a puddle at hismost beautiful girl in the worldcomment as he reaches down with his left hand and tugs the hair tie off my wrist. That’s when I see it.
What the fuck?
CHAPTER TWELVE
NOAH
Hannah grabs my hand, holding it in front of her face.
“What the actual fuck is this?” she demands, pointing to the silver band circling my left ring finger that I’m just noticing now.
On instinct, my gaze drops to her left hand, where an identical band sits. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hannah’s gaze follow mine down to her hand, and it’s like I can see her brain engage.
Her eyes dart around the room, as if she’s seeing it for the first time, and my gaze follows hers, seeing what she sees. The crumpled piece of paper on the floor that looks suspiciously like a veil. A brochure on the nightstand from the Little White Wedding Chapel next to a piece of paper withMarriage Licenseprinted at the top in fancy cursive. An old school polaroid photo I can’t see from where I sit.
And then her gaze drops down to her body.
In her rush to the bathroom and my concern for her when I woke up to the sound of her throwing up, we both somehow missed the fact that, in addition to the rings on our fingers, she’swearing a white strapless dress that barely covers her tits and her ass.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
I don’t know much in this moment, but I am one hundred percent sure Hannah will absolutely fry my balls if I check her out right now.
It would probably be worth it.
A strangled sound from Hannah pulls my brain out of the gutter.
With a gasp, she tugs at the front of her dress, but there is no give in the material at all as she claws at it.
“Get it off,” she wheezes, her voice full of panic. “Get it off.”
My stomach clenches as I watch her struggle. Without a second thought, I pull her between my legs and wrap an arm around her waist, taking one of her hands in mine and bringing my mouth close to her ear. “I’ve got you.”
I stroke my free hand up her back and grasp the zipper of her dress, tugging it down quickly to give her room to breathe and keeping my other arm tight around her waist. “Breathe, Gorgeous. Take it slow. You’re okay. I’ve got you,” I repeat.
Relief swamps me as she takes a few deep breaths. Hannah focuses on the white comforter spread over her legs, and I focus on how good she feels in my arms, the way her breathing evens out as I stroke a hand up and down her back, feeling an unreasonable amount of pride that I was able to calm her down. That she feels safe enough to let me help her.
I don’t think Hannah lets very many people help her.
But just as quickly as she calms down, her body tenses, every muscle clenching tight as she flies out of bed, clapping her hand to her chest at the last second to keep her unzipped dress from falling straight to the floor. She stares at me, her eyes wild and just a touch unhinged.
I don’t mean to smile. I really don’t. But I’m in Hannah’s bed, and she’s so fucking cute with her unzipped dress and her messy ponytail and sleepy eyes. And yeah, I have no clue whathappened last night, and all signs point to we accidentally got married in Vegas, but I’ve always been a flexible kind of guy, so I’m going to roll with it.
Hannah, however, seems to have other ideas for how to handle this morning.
“What the fuck is happening right now?” she demands, her eyes flying around the room, as if she’s making sure she actually saw all the things she thinks she saw. All the evidence of whatever happened last night. “Why are you in my room, and why are we wearing rings, and why is there a brochure from a wedding chapel and a paper that says marriage license on it? Why am I wearing a white dress I’ve never seen before that barely covers my ass and no underwear and why are you naked in my bed? Did we get fuckingmarried?”
I tilt my head, trying to think back to last night. All I can grab onto is one single memory, but it’s a good one. “What’s the last thing you remember from last night?” I ask her.
