11 - Avery
Avery
I wake up feeling like my head’s been run through a wood chipper.
Tequila’s a bitch.
At first, I don’t open my eyes. Pain throbs behind my temples in brutal pulses while my stomach plots revenge.
Even breathing feels slightly too ambitious for the state my body is currently in.
A soft groan escapes me as I drag the blanket higher, squinting against the pale light shining through my closed eyelids.
Wait.
I frown as awareness starts creeping in beneath the hangover.
The mattress beneath me is firmer than mine. The sheets smell different, too, not floral, but some sort of masculine spice.
Slowly, reluctantly, I crack one eye open.
My pile of laundry isn’t in the corner. Makeup and hair supplies aren’t scattered across the dresser, and there’s no photo collage on the far wall. Instead, the room has dark walls and almost no clutter besides a stack of books on the dresser.
This is not my apartment.
Every remaining trace of sleep evaporates instantly.
Where the hell am I? Had I actually slept with someone last night? Could I do that and not remember?
My heart lurches violently as I jerk upright. The room tilts sideways as last night’s drinks threaten to make a reappearance.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper hoarsely, pressing a hand to my pounding head.
Then my eyes snag on the picture frame sitting next to the books on the dresser. Three women crowd around a tall, brown-haired guy in the center, all of them laughing at something off-camera.
Grayson.
Memories from last night slam back into me all at once.
“No. No. No fucking way.”
I shove the blankets away and nearly fall out of bed trying to untangle myself from them.
I threw up in front of Grayson Shaw.
Not only that, but he apparently brought my drunk corpse home afterward in some deeply unfortunate act of charity.
Mortification crawls up my spine so fast I nearly choke on it.
And then, as if humiliation alone isn’t enough punishment, I glance down at myself.
An oversized black t-shirt hangs halfway down my thighs.
A giant Boston Blades logo covers the front while vinyl lettering presses against my shoulder blades on the back.
His last name.
Oh god.
I press both palms against my burning face while my brain supplies increasingly horrifying snippets from the night before.
Pretty men are dangerous.
My parents emotionally waterboarded me.
IKEA dresser.
I need to leave immediately, preferably before he wakes up.
My eyes dart frantically around the room until they land on a chair near the wall, my clothes sitting neatly folded on top of it. Considering I don’t even fold my clothes sober, there is no way I did it drunk, which means he did.
I refuse to emotionally process that while in the middle of my covert escape mission.
I shove myself into my jeans as quickly as my hangover allows, grab my boots, and creep into the hallway as silently as possible. The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and distant city noise drifting through the windows.
Hope sparks instantly. Maybe I can actually pull this off.
The apartment is nicer in daylight than I remember from last night. The clean lines and dark wood manage to feel warm instead of sterile. It’s annoying.
I round the corner toward the front door and stop so abruptly that I stumble backward.
He’s in the kitchen.
His back is toward me while he leans into the open refrigerator, one hand braced against the door as he searches for something inside. Morning light spills across broad shoulders and hard muscle before disappearing beneath a pair of loose gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips.
Oh, that’s just unfair.
I stare helplessly. His hair is messy, curling at the ends like he showered but hasn’t bothered fixing it yet. Somehow, the less polished version of him is infinitely worse for my mental stability than the buttoned-up version I normally deal with.
This version feels too real.
Abort mission.
My grip tightens on my boots as I carefully skirt around the edge of the living room toward the front door. I’m maybe five steps from freedom when the refrigerator door swings shut.
“Well,” Grayson says calmly with his back still toward me, his voice rough with sleep, sending an entirely inappropriate shiver down my spine, “this is a little insulting.”
I freeze.
Slowly, he turns around, and every coherent thought leaves my body.
He’s wearing glasses.
Dark frames sit low on his nose while he watches me with tired amusement and complete exasperation, and I swear my nervous system actually glitches at the sight. There is absolutely no reason glasses should make him look even better than he already does.
And yet.
My eyes drag downward before I can stop them. A tattoo stretches across one side of his chest and shoulder, dark ink curling sharply over hard muscle in intricate lines that disappear beneath his arm.
My mouth goes dry.
Why does he look like that in his own kitchen at eight in the morning?
Meanwhile, I’m standing here tiptoeing out like a raccoon caught breaking into someone’s garbage with last night’s makeup still smeared halfway across my face.
Grayson leans his hip against the counter, coffee mug dangling loosely from one hand while he watches me with entirely too much awareness.
His brows lift slightly. “Were you seriously trying to sneak out while I was standing right here?”
Heat floods my face.
“No,” I lie automatically.
His expression doesn’t change.
“Okay,” I admit weakly. “Maybe a little.”
“A little,” he repeats flatly as if he cannot believe I’m attempting this argument.
I look anywhere except directly at him, but every direction somehow still includes broad shoulders, a tattooed chest, and those stupidly hot glasses.
“I was going to leave a note,” I offer desperately.
“You don’t have paper.”
Damn it.
My eyes flick reluctantly back toward his face.
Okay, the glasses are genuinely upsetting because this is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
Of course, they have to be worn by a man I can’t stand.
A man who was handing me napkins while I vomited tequila into a bush less than twelve hours ago.
Bad karma strikes again.
“You can forget this ever happened,” I inform him while backing toward the front door.
Grayson takes a slow sip of coffee. “Interesting way to say thank you.”
“I didn’t ask you to kidnap me.” Then, because his smirk annoys me, I add, “again.”
“Again?”
“First after the store, then last night.”
His jaw works. “You mean when your car broke down and when you were one drink away from poisoning yourself with alcohol?”
“I was fine.”
“You threw up in a bush.”
I point at him defensively. “Allegedly.”
His mouth twitches before he turns away and starts pulling things onto the counter. The kind of groceries adults buy when they have their life together. Eggs. Spinach. Mushrooms. Bell peppers. Cheese.
“I really wasn’t that drunk,” I mutter.
Grayson pauses mid-chop and slowly looks at me.
“You can’t honestly think that.”
His tone has me feeling defensive.
“What?”
“You nearly face-planted onto the floor multiple times, were alone, all over some guy who didn’t care that you could hardly stand, and then threw up.” He resumes chopping vegetables. “That’s not tipsy.”
I cross my arms tighter. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being accurate.”
I roll my eyes, but the truth settles unpleasantly in my stomach because underneath the embarrassment, I know he’s right.
Last night was dangerously stupid. And the worst part is, I knew it was stupid while I did it.
I’m surrounded by my friends’ happy relationships and my parents’ shitty one, all the while I’m still screwed up from some asshole who tore me down with nothing but harsh words and control.
Last night, I just wanted to stop feeling sorry for myself and prove that I’m not permanently screwed up.
“So what?” I glare at him. “Are you going to give me a safety seminar now?”
“If that’s what it takes.” He starts whisking the eggs harder than necessary. “Do you do this a lot?”
“No.”
“Go out alone and get obliterated?”
My spine stiffens. “I said no.”
He glances at me again, unconvinced. “Did you even know the guy you were dancing with?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“What was his name?”
I open my mouth, but seem to have forgotten every name in existence. “…That feels irrelevant.”
Grayson exhales sharply through his nose and flips something on the stove.
Embarrassment over last night creeps further up my spine, but I shake it away.
I’ve had enough of men telling me what I should or shouldn’t be doing to last a lifetime.
Just because Grayson decided at some point over the last twelve hours that my well-being is his problem doesn’t mean I have to sit here and listen to this.
“I should go,” I say, biting my bottom lip. “You’ve done your good deed for the year. Congratulations.”
I make it exactly three steps before his voice stops me.
“Sit down.”
I turn back as he slides two plates onto the kitchen island, both loaded with massive omelets that smell so good my stomach clenches.
“No.”
“Chaos.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He points the spatula at me. “Sit down and eat.”
“Stop trying to tell me what to do all the time.” My voice rises involuntarily, but his expression doesn’t change. Of course it doesn’t.
“Then stop making stupid decisions for the hell of it.”
I jolt back slightly, and his face softens in response.
“I thought you were supposed to be nice.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “I thought you liked me better mean.”
My cheeks flush as I remember more details from last night.
“I don’t like you at all.” I head toward the door again.
He crosses the space in a few steps, stopping a few feet away, careful to still give me space.
“You liked me just fine when you tried to pull me onto the dance floor last night.”
“I was drunk.”
“So, now you admit you were drunk.”
“Go to hell.”
“Sure, I’ll go to hell. After you eat.” A small grin pulls at his mouth. “Please.”
Some of the fight drains out of me.
“Why?”
“Because I’ve seen what you consider groceries and would prefer you eat real food today.”
I can’t help laughing quietly at the accuracy.
“Fine,” I concede. “But only because it smells really fucking good.”
“It tastes as good as it smells,” he says smugly.
I slide reluctantly onto one of the stools and cut into the omelet. The first bite nearly makes me cry. A soft, involuntary sound escapes me before I can stop it.
His eyes darken behind his glasses before he looks away and reaches for his coffee.
Interesting.
It almost looked like desire flickered there. What’s worse is that I’m tempted to make the sound again so I can find out for sure.
We eat in near silence before he finally lets me call an Uber. I’d like to think it’s because he’s given up the whole hero act, but it’s really just because he has practice.
With my Uber on its way, he disappears into his room and reemerges fully dressed, sans glasses. It’s a damn shame.
“You put concerning amounts of sugar in your coffee,” he mutters while watching me dump another packet into the to-go mug.
“You put vegetables in eggs. We all have flaws.”
He grins and grabs his keys.
Only once we’re in the elevator am I brave enough to say what’s been circling my head.
“Thank you for last night." I shift awkwardly. “And sorry for the random blabbering. If you could maybe not hold it over my head, I’d appreciate it.”
“Why would I hold it over your head?” He asks, sounding genuinely confused.
“I’m just saying I know I owe you now and…”
He cuts me off, “You don’t owe me anything.”
My head jerks up, meeting his eyes.
“You don’t owe me because I was a decent human being.” He steps out of the elevator. “As far as the other stuff, consider it forgotten.”
Outside, cool air eases some of the heat from my face.
“Thanks.”
“Well, most of it.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “I may have a hard time forgetting that you called me pretty.”
I shove his shoulder right as my Uber pulls up. “When I said pretty, I meant pretty annoying.”
He stares at me for a beat like he’s absorbing how terrible that comeback was. Then we both laugh.
Laughing with Grayson Shaw has got to be a sign of the apocalypse.
“Seriously, though,” he says, holding the car door open for me, “don’t worry about it.” Then just before the door shuts, he adds, “I really did mean it when I said I’m not acting.”
As the Uber pulls away from the curb, I stare out the window, turning his words over in my head, not that they change anything.
But…
I spent the entire morning alone with a man for the first time in almost a year, and I was fine. More than fine. And my body reacted to him in a way it hasn’t reacted to anyone since the breakup.
Those glasses combined with a tattoo. I mean, come the fuck on.
I close my eyes briefly, immediately flashing back to him standing shirtless in the kitchen with messy hair and that rough morning voice while looking at me like I was a complete disaster. Which, to be fair, I am.
I should cut off this train of thought, but my willpower is next to zero this morning.
Maybe this is exactly what I need.
I mean, surely Grayson Shaw is safe enough to break a very long, very frustrating dry spell.
The attraction is there, on both ends, if the way his eyes linger on me is any indication.
And even better, he’s not someone I could accidentally fall for.
We don’t get along in the slightest. He thinks I’m chaotic and reckless. I think he’s uptight and bossy.
There’s no risk of accidentally letting him too far into my life again.
Just sex.
Heat creeps slowly up my neck as the realization settles in.
Oh my God.
I’m considering Grayson Shaw as a hookup.
I stare harder out the window, horrified by myself.
Objectively, it’s a terrible idea.
But terrible ideas are usually the ones I cling to, which is probably why I can’t stop thinking about it the entire ride home.