Page 33 of What Are The Odds?
It was the same for me. There was a foul taste in my mouth, though I think the vodka was more to blame than the mixer.
“What time is it?” she asked.
I checked my phone that was on my side table.
“Almost seven.”
She sat on the edge of my bed, lacing up her sneakers. I guess she was ready to go. I had an urge to wrap my arms around her waist and pull her back into bed. It’d been nice having her here, holding her, smelling her . . . and I needed to stop before we were back to square one. A horny Levi and an uninterested Grace. I tried telling my brain I’d be feeling the same if any girl were in my room, but I knew I was kidding myself. After waking up from a one-night stand, I never envisioned having the girl stay longer. If anything, I was the one getting ready for the day to encourage them to leave. Getting Grace's hint, I threw the blankets off.
“I’ll drop you back at your dorm.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I need coffee anyway.”
Shit. Now I was standing, I realised how much coffee I would need. I was hungover. Like, really hungover. Damn Tripp and his free pouring. We had an important game tonight.
“What the hell, Levi?” Grace gasped. “Are you serious?”
She was gaping at me, her forehead pinched and her mouth open. I looked down at my boxers, expecting there to be an unexpected guest offending her. But there was nothing. The leg injury had taken care of it.
I frowned. “What?”
“A shirtless Levi Holloway looks very different now I’m sober.” She gestured up and down my body. “There’s, like, eight of them.”
Oh. She was checking me out. Like, really taking her time to look me up and down. She ought to look away unless she wanted to make my favourite body part reappear. The way she was looking at me was criminal. There was nothing platonic about that look.
“You like what you see, Hughesy?”
“A nun would like what they see.”
Laughing, I went into the bathroom and pulled on the t-shirt she’d neatly folded and left on the counter. It was still warm and smelt like her. After brushing my teeth, I turned off the bathroom light. My head was throbbing. I was proper hungover. This wasn’t good.
“You alright, Holloway?” Grace asked.
She was still perched on the end of the bed.
“I need something greasy,” I told her.
Her eyebrows shot up. “You’re hungover?”
“No,” I lied.
She snickered. “You are.”
“Am not.”
“Do a burpee then.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Why the hell would I do that?”
“Physical activity is a hungover person’s worse nightmare.”
I levelled my gaze on her as I walked to my dresser in search of a pair of sweatpants.
“Climb back into that bed with me Hughesy and I’ll show you just how much physical activity I can handle.”
There was no instant remark or eyeroll. Instead, Grace blushed. She went quiet. Was she considering it?
