Chapter 5

I wake up in a bed that is not mine.

The bed beneath me is impossibly soft—like cloud-level soft—and the sheets smell like expensive detergent and man.

The air smells like cologne, money, and a faint trace of regret.

My lashes flutter open, and the ceiling above me is not the cracked one in my apartment with the water stain shaped like New Jersey (I have money for clothes, not for leaky roofs). This one is smooth, white, and lit by a sunbeam that really needs to dial it down.

Then I turn my head.

Oh.

My.

God.

He’s lying there, half on his stomach, the covers kicked halfway off his very naked body, the morning sun slashing across his back and highlighting every line of his perfect, sculpted torso.

And his face? Jesus. Even unconscious he looks like a cologne ad. Sharp jaw, dark lashes, slightly parted lips. I think there might be a little bit of drool on the pillow and somehow even that is attractive.

And then it hits me.

Oh my God. I slept with him.

I, Charlotte Isabella Montgomery, had hot, toe-curling, mind-melting sex with a stranger.

I nearly shriek.

Emily is never going to believe this.

Because, yeah, I went home with a stranger. A hot, British, champagne-offering stranger. And I didn’t just go home with him. I went all in.

And now it’s 6:07 AM and my body decides, like clockwork, to wake the hell up. As if my anxiety isn’t already doing laps in my freaking brain.

I sit up so fast my head spins. My hair is a mess, my dress is on the floor, and my bra is...where the hell is my bra?

I slide out of bed as quietly as I can, trying not to disturb him while I search for my bra. It's nowhere to be seen. I find my heels by the window, my purse on the kitchen counter, my dignity in the trash somewhere, and… still no bra.

Great.

So I do what any rational woman would do, I give up. I slide my dress back on sans bra, and of course, I’m busty, so now it’s a whole problem. My boobs are jiggling with every tip-toe toward the door, and just when I think I’ve made it out, he lets out the softest, tiniest fart.

I stop in my tracks.

My eyes widen.

And then I giggle. Like, full-body, shoulders-shaking, silent giggles. He’s too hot to be real, and now he farts like a Disney prince? I’m dying.

I pull out my phone. I shouldn’t. But also... I need proof. No one will believe me otherwise.

So, like the absolute creep I apparently am now, I carefully angle my phone for the perfect sleepy-man photo, just to show Emily and Callie that I wasn’t hallucinating. But the shutter sound goes off at full volume, because of course it does.

I freeze.

He shifts slightly, mumbles something in his sleep, and I stop breathing.

But he doesn’t wake up.

He just turns over, facing the other side, and snores. Softly.

My heart thuds in my chest. Monty used to snore like a freight train, loud and annoying and not even the endearing kind. But this? This is, like, soothing.

I tiptoe out, grab my heels, and make a run for it before my ovaries decide to get more ideas.

By the time I roll into brunch, I’m late, slightly hungover, and internally screaming. Like, brunch is halfway over and they’ve started gossiping without me late.

Callie’s already sipping on her third mimosa, wearing a silver glittery romper and shoer leather boots. Her oversized sunglasses take up half her face and she looks like a fabulous alien.

Emily, in contrast, is in an oversized linen blouse that could double as a curtain, old Converse, and a paint-smudged bun that makes her look like she’s fresh out of an art warzone. Her earrings don’t match. Probably on purpose.

And me? I show up in my butter-yellow sundress, Coach sunglasses (yes, the bougie ones I only wear to trick people into thinking I’m emotionally stable), and kitten heels that are way too cute for how trashy I feel on the inside.

Callie spots me first. “Oh my God, Sleeping Booty returns.”

Emily snorts. “We were taking bets on if you died or just found Jesus.”

I slide into my seat, grab a mimosa like it’s my last lifeline, and sigh. “I hate both of you.”

“Ohhh, she’s glowing,” Callie grins, wiggling her fingers at me. “Babe, that’s post-sex skin. You can’t lie to me, I pay your skincare subscription.”

Emily raises an eyebrow. “Wait, what?”

“She was too quiet last night,” Callie says, swirling her glass like a Bond villain. “Which means she wasn’t crying into a pillow. She was busy doing other things to it.”

I groan. “Can I mourn in peace?”

Callie cackles. “Not when your mourning includes abs and an accent.”

I nearly choke on my water. “I lost my sanity.”

Emily raises a brow. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“I mean, technically she did lose something,” Callie adds. “Her dignity. Probably a couple calories.”

I cover my face. “You guys are insufferable.”

Emily leans in. “Wait. Did you actually sleep with him?”

I bury my face in my hands. “...Yes.”

Callie screams. People look. I die.

“AND she admits it!”

Emily smirks. “We need details.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Then we don’t believe you.” Callie giggles.

“I have a picture,” I say, holding in a smile.

Emily smirks. “Pictures or it didn’t happen.”

“I’m not showing you his—”

“I don’t want his dick, Charlotte. I want his face.”

With a resigned sigh, I pull up the picture, the only evidence of my wild night, well, except for my sore thighs and other places.

I slide my phone across the table.

Emily picks it up. Stares. Her brows slowly rise.

She squints. “Wait... Isn’t that,”

She doesn’t finish.

Just sits there. Mouth open.

Callie and I both lean in. “Who?”

Emily blinks, looking up at me like she can’t believe her eyes.

“Charlotte... that’s Axton Rowe.”