Chapter Two - Shana

His laugh rumbles like thunder, rolling through the morning twilight. “That, my lady, could wound a man of less self-confidence. What do you remember?”

Slowly, I open my eyes and take in Trevor Willis. He’s nothing like I imagined him to be from my best friend’s description. The younger brother of her fiancé was rumored to be quiet and shy, an engineer who constructs roads and bridges. More of a thinker, she said, not as much of a people person, nothing like his gregarious entrepreneurial brother.

In my fevered memories, as I inhale his masculine scent, feel the warmth of his skin, and absorb the adoration of his gaze, nothing could be further from the truth. He’s every bit as sexy. No, he’s more. Much more. And there’s a quiet reserve about him that I find reassuring. My gaze wanders downward.

The sheets from the bed where we slept are bunched near his waist, covering his legs and revealing his defined torso, broad shoulders, and still higher, the most mesmerizing shining green stare. His dirty blond hair is tousled in a sensual morning way, making my fingers itch to comb through his locks. His cheeks are high as his smile broadens. His strong chiseled jaw is covered in a day’s overgrowth of blond.

If I didn’t remember his name and our meeting—or at least the beginning of it—I wouldn’t know he’s my best friend’s future brother-in-law.

If that were the case, I wouldn’t realize that on the morning of my best friend’s wedding, I’m waking in the bed of a man I met merely hours ago, with a terrible headache and more questions than answers.

Tentatively, I sigh and scoot up the large king-sized bed toward the headboard. As I do, I notice the clothes I’m wearing. They are clothes, but not completely mine. In place of a nightgown, I’m wearing a large button-down man’s shirt and yes, my own panties.

At least I’m not nude.

The problem is that I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. I need the entire film. It wasn’t the director who cut out important scenes, leaving them lying upon the editing-room floor, but Fireball. Trevor’s cinnamon scent. Some of the memories are coming back. The problem is that they lack chronological order, creating a puzzle without shape. I can’t see the whole picture.

“Trevor?” I ask, suddenly unsure if I can handle the truth. “Do you think we could get some coffee?”

His grin grows. “I already called. Room service is on its way.”

“I’m a big hot chocolate fan, but right now, I think coffee sounds best.”

“Anything else, my lady?”

I sigh again, dropping my gaze to my hands that are neatly folded on my lap. Looking back up through my lashes, I confess, “At the risk of injuring your self-confidence, can you tell me about last night?”

“Are you asking for a story?”

“I’m asking for the truth.”