Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Not to worry. Janet always had a minion on guard to steer me toward a chauffeured car.
I’d make it home unscathed.
I hoped.
I gingerly sat up in bed, wincing at the eerie thomp of my brain bouncing against my skull. It throbbed like a motherfucker. I shifted off the mattress, standing still with my eyes closed in deference to the spinning room. When I thought I could walk without stumbling over my feet, I licked my lips and opened my eyes, and—
Fuck. My phone was ringing.
Everything in me urged me to ignore it, but that wasn’t an ordinary ring. That was Rourke’s private line. I opened my eyes and rooted around for my cell in the pile of discarded clothes next to my bed. After wading through what seemed like a dozen pockets in a never-ending pile of tuxedo pants, I found it.
There had to be fifty new texts lighting up my screen. I scrolled by them and squinted at the recent terse seven-word message from Seb.
My office. Noon. DO NOT be late.
Shit, I must have done something. Now that he was a happily married man, Seb was relatively even-tempered, but he still had his hothead moments. He usually had reason to gripe. Not today, though.
I’d mostly been on my best behavior last night and had made it home in one piece. Yay me. Best of all, my bed was empty this morning.
I did a double take to make sure that was true. Phew! I sighed in relief and scratched my balls as I wandered into the adjoining bathroom suite to pee and find Advil. I stooped at the sink and cupped a handful of water to wash the pills down, leaning heavily on the marble countertop before blinking at my reflection.
Holy fuck. I looked like ten miles of bad road.
I rubbed my stubbled jaw and squinted at the crusty gunk on my abs, noting for the first time that I wasn’t wearing boxer briefs. That was weird. I didn’t wear pajama bottoms, but I always wore boxer briefs to bed, unless—
I hurried into my room, surveying the wreckage of rumpled sheets and scattered pillows. My designer navy-striped duvet cascaded onto the floor from the upholstered bench at the end of the bed as if it had been pushed aside and forgotten in the middle of the night.
That wasn’t normal. It was January, for fuck’s sake. We might not have arctic temperatures in LA, but it was still chilly. In fact, the room was cold right now and it smelled vaguely like…sex. A little stronger than the solo variety, too.
“Hello?” I called out. “Anyone here?”
No answer.
I surveyed the space cautiously with my hands on my hips and willed my brain to clear so I could piece together the shadowy parts of last night. I gave up when my stomach rumbled.
Mysteries could wait. I needed coffee and food. Stat.
I stepped into a clean pair of briefs, gray sweats, and a Foo Fighters tee, grabbed my cell, and padded downstairs barefoot, clutching the steel banister for support. Sun streaked the hardwood floor and bounced off the white walls, flooding the great room with so much light I needed sunglasses. And maybe more Advil.
I massaged my temple as I made my way through my contemporary-style home with its uber-minimalist decor. I’d told my designer that I liked Baxter’s New York City apartment in The Quiet Cavern, and she’d run with it. So, basically, my Hollywood Hills house resembled a movie set with sleek lines, European leather furniture, giant black-and-white scribbly art on white walls, and the occasional steel or glass sculpture of unknown origin. It was cool, but not exactly homey.
However, I loved my kitchen-great-room setup. The light-wood cabinetry, state-of-the-art appliances, and modern lighting looked impressive as fuck. So what if I couldn’t cook to save my life? My oatmeal tasted extra awesome from my ginormous island where I could stare at the massive flat-screen in the adjoining family room area. And the city view from the wide bank of windows beyond was seriously breathtaking.
Okay, so it was a bit like living in a fishbowl, but a nice one.
Which I supposed made me a goldfish. Yuck.
I pushed a couple of buttons on my industrial coffee machine and checked the time on my cell. 10:20 a.m. I could enjoy my java, make toast, and catch up on social media. It was kind of fun to see the photos from the after parties and hey, maybe one of them would help jog my memory.
I poured myself a cup of coffee, perched on a barstool, and was about to start scrolling when I spotted the yellow Post-it Note stuck to the fridge. I eyed it warily, half-convinced I might be seeing things.
Nope. It was still there.
I pushed my phone aside and took a fortifying sip before hauling my ass up to investigate.