Morning Afternath

Chapter 4

Zara’s POV

I woke up with my face pressed against a broad chest, my leg thrown over muscular thighs, and an arm wrapped possessively around my waist. The unfamiliar scent of expensive cologne mixed with male musk filled my nostrils, and for a moment, I couldn't remember where I was.

Then it all came rushing back.

"Holy shit!" I bolted upright, clutching the hotel sheet to my naked body.

Josh stirred beneath me, his storm-gray eyes opening slowly. "What's wrong?" His voice was rough with sleep, and God help me, it was sexy as hell.

"Did we—" I gestured frantically between us, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Please tell me we didn't actually—"

"Have sex?" Josh propped himself up on one elbow, completely unashamed of his nakedness. "Yeah, we did. And it was incredible."

My stomach dropped. "No, no, no. This was supposed to be a dream. A really vivid, alcohol-induced dream."

"Zara, you were very much awake. And very much willing." A slow smile spread across his face. "In fact, you were practically begging for it."

"Fuck you," I snapped, scrambling out of bed with the sheet wrapped around me like armor.

"Hold up," Josh sat up fully now, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "You don't remember?"

"I remember drinking. I remember talking. Everything after that is a blur."

Josh's expression grew serious. "You pulled me back when I tried to leave. You said you wanted me to help you forget, to show you what it felt like to be wanted."

Fragments of memory flickered through my mind—my hands on his face, his mouth on mine, the desperate need to feel something other than pain.

"You kept pushing, Zara. I tried to resist, told you it wasn't a good idea because you'd been drinking. But you wouldn't take no for an answer. You pressed yourself against me, traced my lips with your thumb, told me you were tired of being the good girl who gets nothing in return."

More pieces fell into place. The heat between us. The way his control finally snapped. The feeling of being desired, chosen, wanted for the first time in years.

"Then we kissed," he continued, his voice growing rougher. "And I was lost. You tasted like whiskey and desperation, and I couldn't resist you anymore."

"Stop," I whispered, but he wasn't finished.

"You guided my hands to your body, told me exactly what you wanted. You were so responsive, so beautiful. When you came apart in my arms—"

"I said stop!" I was backing toward the bathroom now, my face burning with shame and mortification. "I need to go."

"Zara, wait—"

But I was already slamming the bathroom door behind me. I stared at my reflection in the mirror—wild hair, swollen lips, neck marked with what were definitely hickeys. This wasn't me. I didn't do one-night stands with strangers. I didn't throw myself at men in hotel rooms. I was the good girl, the responsible one, the one who waited for love and commitment.

What the hell had happened to me?

I threw on my clothes from yesterday, ignoring the way they smelled like bar smoke and regret. When I emerged from the bathroom, Josh was sitting on the edge of the bed in his boxers, watching me with those intense gray eyes.

"We need to talk about this," he said.

"No, we don't. This was a mistake. A huge, alcohol-fueled mistake that never should have happened."

"Zara—"

"I have to go." I grabbed my keys from the nightstand, not meeting his eyes. "Forget this happened. Forget you ever met me."

I bolted from the room before he could stop me, my heels clicking frantically against the hotel corridor tiles. The elevator couldn't come fast enough, and when it finally arrived, I practically threw myself inside.

What was wrong with me? In less than twenty-four hours, I'd stabbed my abusive ex, discovered my entire family was built on lies, and had a one-night stand with a complete stranger. I was unraveling, and I didn't know how to stop it.

The parking garage was a blur as I fumbled for my car keys. I needed to get away from here, away from Josh, away from the memory of how good it had felt to be wanted by someone who actually seemed to see me.

I pulled out of the hotel parking lot with squealing tires, my hands shaking on the steering wheel. Where was I supposed to go? I couldn't go back to Robert's—he'd probably kill me. My parents had made it clear I wasn't welcome. Katy was out of the question.

A horn blared as I swerved into the next lane without looking. My heart jumped into my throat as the other driver flipped me off through his window.

"Get it together, Zara," I muttered, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "You can't afford to crash your car too. It's all you have left."

But where could I go? I drove aimlessly through the city streets, my mind cycling through every possibility and coming up empty. Hotels were expensive, and I couldn't afford to keep paying for rooms. I had maybe three hundred dollars in my checking account—enough for a few days, but then what?

I was completely and utterly alone.

Then it hit me. Green. My college roommate, Green Martinez. We'd been inseparable junior and senior year, stayed up all night talking about our dreams and fears, promised to stay in touch forever. But life had gotten in the way, and it had been nearly five years since we'd spoken.

Would she even remember me? Would she care?

There was only one way to find out.

I pulled over in a McDonald's parking lot and scrolled through my contacts until I found her number. My finger hovered over the call button for a full minute before I finally pressed it.

"Zara fucking Morrison!" Green's voice exploded through the speaker, warm and familiar and exactly what I needed to hear. "Girl, where the hell have you been?"

I burst into tears.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" Green's voice immediately shifted to concern. "Zara, talk to me. What happened?"

Through sobs and hiccups, I told her everything. About Robert and Katy, about my family's revelation, about having nowhere to go. I left out the part about Josh—that shame was still too fresh, too raw.

"Jesus Christ, Zara. I'm so sorry, baby. Where are you right now?"

"McDonald's parking lot on Fifth Street, crying like a lunatic."

"Okay, I'm texting you my address. Come over right now. We'll figure this out together."

Twenty minutes later, I was standing outside a charming duplex in the arts district, my eyes still red and puffy from crying. Green opened the door before I could knock, and she looked exactly the same—wild curly hair, bright eyes, wearing paint-splattered overalls over a vintage band t-shirt.

"Come here, you beautiful disaster." She pulled me into the tightest hug I'd had in years.

Her apartment was an explosion of color and creativity—canvases everywhere, easels set up in corners, paintbrushes soaking in mason jars.

"Sit," she commanded, pushing me onto a paint-splattered couch. "I'm making tea, and you're going to tell me everything again, slowly this time."

As she bustled around her tiny kitchen, I looked around at the life she'd built. Green had always been the brave one, the one who chased her dreams instead of settling for safety. She'd wanted to be an artist, and from the looks of things, she was actually doing it.

"Here." She handed me a steaming mug of chamomile tea. "Now, start from the beginning."

I told her about the past five years with Robert, about feeling trapped and worthless. About walking in on him with Katy, about the confrontation with my family, about having nowhere to turn.

"You can stay here," Green said without hesitation when I finished. "As long as you need."

"Green, I can't ask you to—"

"You're not asking. I'm offering. We're friends, Zara. Real friends. And real friends don't let each other sleep on the streets."

I started crying again, but these were tears of relief. For the first time in twenty-four hours, I didn't feel completely alone.

"Thank you," I whispered. "I don't know what I would have done—"

"You would have figured it out, because you're stronger than you know. But you don't have to figure it out alone."

By 5 PM, I was back from my shift at the diner, exhausted but grateful to have something resembling a routine. Green had insisted I take the spare room, and even though it was tiny and filled with her art supplies, it felt like a sanctuary.

I was digging through my car for my phone charger when I realized something was missing.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it!" I slammed my palm against the steering wheel. "Where the hell is my purse?"

My purse. With my ID, my debit card, my cash, my house keys—everything important I owned. When had I last seen it? The hotel. I must have left it at the hotel in my rush to escape Josh and the morning-after awkwardness.

Great. Just fucking perfect.

I was debating whether to drive back to the hotel when my phone buzzed with a W******p message from an unknown number.

“HEY PRETTY,LOOKING FOR THIS?”

Attached was a photo of my black leather purse sitting on what looked like a restaurant table.

Josh. Of course it was Josh. He must have found my purse after I bolted from the hotel room like a crazy person.

Another message appeared.

“IF YOU WANT YOUR PURSE BACK,MEET ME AT RUSSO’S CAFE ON CHERRY STREET BY 7pm .COME ALONE”

"What the hell?" I stared at the screen, my heart hammering. How did he even get my number? I sure as hell hadn't given it to him last night.

A third message popped up.

“DON’T KEEP ME WAITING ZARA”.

I scrolled back through the messages, studying the profile picture. It was definitely him—that sharp jawline and those storm-gray eyes were unmistakable. But how the fuck did he get my phone number? Did he go through my purse? My phone contacts?

My hands were shaking as I typed back: “HOW DID YOU GET MY NUMBER?”

The response came immediately: “SEE YOU AT 7”.

This day just kept getting better and better.