Chapter Eighteen – Fawn
Ugh, my head feels like it’s filled with cement. My throat’s drier than a desert, and everything aches. Yup. Definitely drank way too much last night. My eyelids are dead weight, but I wrestle them open. It’s blurry at first, but the world slowly comes into focus. And then it hits me.
Wait, this isn’t my room.
My elbows find the mattress and I lever myself up, eyes focusing on every detail.
Navy sheets that are messy and smell of manly cologne.
A clock shaped like a bottle.
Medals hang on the wall — real ones, glinting in the light. Ones you only receive if you’re actually good at something.
Lastly, a pile of clothes lays slumped over a chair in the corner. Big guy clothes, for sure.
Absolutely nothing in this room has even a whisper of female energy, which means I’m in a guy’s room. Who the hell did I go back with?
Each breath comes faster than the last. The room feels stifling, like the air has turned to wax, clinging to my skin.
Everything is amplified, overwhelming — too close, too loud, too bright, even in the dim light.
A wave of panic washes over me, and without thinking, I grab the blanket and throw it off.
Hallelujah! My clothes are still on.
Being fully dressed doesn’t mean anything, though. I’m totally clueless about how I got here.
Okay, it’s got to be Dylan or Torin . . . unless some random guy I don’t even know swept me off my feet, but I doubt that, especially since they both seemed so protective last night.
My fingers find the bridge of my nose and press down.
I hope to squeeze the hangover out of my brain with brute force, but no such luck.
The sun is seeping through the blinds. Carefully, I push myself up, and everything in the room starts to tilt, but I manage to remain standing.
My shoes are lying on the floor next to the bed, like two guilty parties to a crime.
Getting down to put them on is like competing in a triathlon.
The blinds come next — I pull them open and the light hits like a punishment. The sun is shining in my face like it has a grudge against me. Through barely open eyes I track whatever is backing up to the house — a beautiful forest. I try to gauge where I am in Ivywood, but it’s no use.
One flick of the window latch, and the air comes flooding in. It’s too hot outside, muggy, but having air in my face feels amazing. I want to sit at this ledge all day.
But responsibility calls.
I scan the room, searching for any sign of my phone and bag. Neither are here.
Then, I freeze.
Catching me off guard, a casual whistle cuts through the quiet, drifting down the hallway toward me.
A deep breath comes first. Then, against every instinct, I follow the sound like I’m marching to my own execution.
Doors line both sides, shut, dark, and not my concern in any way.
I zero in on the light emanating from the kitchen at the end and try to scrounge together some semblance of dignity from what’s left of me.
And there Torin is, topless in gray joggers, pouring something into a glass like a Calvin Klein ad. I manage to catch his eye, and a slow, brazen smile spreads across his face.
“You!” I blurt out.
He raises a brow. “Me?”
“You.”
“Me?” he echoes, the confusion laced in his voice. Or maybe he’s acting. If he is faking it, that’s even worse.
My hungover brain can only think of two things: how dry my throat is, and that I slept with Torin Anderson. He doesn’t answer. The smirk does it for him. Oh, he is really having fun with this.
“Look,” I start, waving my hands like I could push away the awkwardness. “I don’t ever do this sort of stuff. It’s just a one-off. I was super drunk and probably wasn’t even good in bed—”
“Who’s good in bed?” Dylan asks as he saunters into the kitchen, looking way too awake. His hair’s a hot mess. My head snaps around before the rest of me catches up. My soul leaves my body, and my mind goes into overdrive.
“Wait . . .” I yell, trying to remain collected. “I slept with both of you?”
Torin narrows his eyes, and Dylan stops dead in his tracks.
For a second, I think about running back to the window and jumping into the forest.
Both of them are clearly struggling, the laughter building behind their lips. Great, they’re finding this amusing while I want to fall apart into a million embarrassing pieces.
Dylan exhales, calming himself down, and then leans against the counter, looking way too pleased with himself. “And what if you did?”
My eyes automatically drop. “I’ve never had a threesom—”
“Fucking chill.” Torin steps in. He strides over with a glass of orange juice. “You didn’t sleep with anyone.”
“I didn’t?”
His head moves side to side and then the glass is extended toward me. I take it like it’s the most important thing ever and gulp down half of it.
Dylan edges closer. “Why? You wish you had?”
I almost choke on the orange pulp.
“Cut it out, Dylan. Give the lightweight a break,” Torin says, shooting him a warning look.
Oh, brilliant. So that’s the nickname Torin’s going to be giving me now. I prefer princess.
Dylan puts his hands up like he’s giving up, but he’s still grinning. “How are you feeling? You’re looking—”
“Rough,” I cut in. “If I were you, I wouldn’t come too close. I need to brush my teeth.”
“I was going to say tired.”
“Oh . . .” I exhale. “Question. Did I snore?”
“What you did is puke—” Torin starts explaining, pouring himself a coffee.
“A fucking lot,” Dylan chimes.
I want the ground to swallow me up. So they have both seen me throw up. Bet they’ll never let me forget.
Torin raises his coffee, peering over the edge. “Jackass here looked after you all night. I don’t deal with vomit.”
“I even held your hair back,” Dylan says, practically glowing with pride.
He held my hair? I’m stunned. That’s cute. It makes my stomach twist in a new way.
“And don’t worry, we didn’t share a bed,” he confirms. “I crashed on the couch, but I kept checking in every hour to make sure you were alive.”
A part of me is relieved he stayed on the couch. I wouldn’t want him to see my body accidentally. But I feel terrible; he hardly slept.
“Thanks,” I sigh. “I probably acted like a total idiot, huh?”
Torin and Dylan exchange a look. It’s evident they’re holding something back.
“Hey. What was that face all about?” I ask, needing to know.
Dylan displays a subtle grin that looks forced, and Torin stares into his mug. “Nothing at all.”
The shame hits and my hand goes straight to the back of my neck. Then suddenly, I’m hit with a thought. “Dee!” My eyes go wide. “She’s going to be so worried. I probably have, like . . . twenty missed calls. I know she’s putting up missing posters.”
Dylan stretches across the countertop, passing me my phone and bag with a casual flick of the wrist. “Actually, she’s the one who told us to look after you. Well, threatened us. She took Cal home last night.”
My eyebrows shoot up. That figures, and honestly, good for her.
I let out a little laugh, but before I let the thought settle, a memory crashes into me. “Wait. I just remembered you dancing on the bar to Shakira.”
Dylan begins to sway his hips. “Oh yeah,” he answers, shoulders rolling like he’s convinced he’s Shakira reborn. “Enjoy the show?”
Torin snorts and coffee sloshes back into his mug.
“It was something,” I admit, smiling. “But thank you for doing that and looking after me.”
He shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal, though his grin’s enough to illuminate the entire house. “Anytime . . . princess.”
That nickname hits me right in the chest. It feels like he’s throwing it, daring me to catch it without fumbling. Before I can frame the question buzzing in my mind — why princess? — Dylan looks at his watch. “Fuck, I’ve gotta get going.”
“Meds,” Torin cuts in, all deadpan, like it’s some kind of regular occurrence he’s gotten used to.
Dylan kicks into chaos mode in an instant: throwing open cabinets, grabbing a bottle, and shaking out pills. He pops them in his mouth like they’re candy.
Something in my expression must give me away — he answers me before I even open my mouth. “I’m not a pill popper, before you ask. It’s just my ADHD medication. They keep me from,” he dramatically spins, “being me at full volume.”
The nod comes easy, but the smile is harder to hold back. I just find him so goddamn likable.
The moment is short-lived when the awkward reality hits me: I left my car at the bar. I shift my weight, pondering my very noble choices: I could call a cab, hitchhike, or meander into the forest to start an entirely new life. Tempting.
But again, Dylan gets to it before me. “Torin’s gonna give you a ride. I’d tag along, but I’ve gotta be somewhere.”
“Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you at the rink. I’ve still got tons of questions to ask.”
Dylan snatches his car keys off the counter.
“Unfinished business, huh?” His cocky smile returns.
“Guess I’ll be seeing you very soon. If you get bored, you can always stalk me on social media.
” He winks, like he knows that’s exactly what I’ve done.
With that, he saunters off, and I’m left wondering.
Then, Torin stands close enough for his hip to brush against me.
His smell wafts through me instantly — coffee and a distinctive woody aftershave. It’s warm and intoxicating, and my eyelids shut for half a second, because — wow.
His presence feels comforting against my side. “Right. I’m gonna put a shirt on, and then we’ll hit the truck.”
I have to catch myself for one moment and pretend I’m not affected by his scent or his perfect body. As he walks away, all I can think of is how caring and safe he and Dylan make me feel.
****