"Last weekend never happened."
That's what Olivia Graham repeatedly told herself after her earth-shattering encounter with him.
And yet, she couldn't shake the way her lips burned when she recalled his kiss or the phantom sensation of his fingertip...
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The sound of a woman's voice pulls me out of my half-assed sleep. Feeling groggy, I start to open my eyes, remembering the shitty events that unfolded, leading me to Mickey's.
God. I'm such a fucking idiot.
"Am I interrupting something in here?" Eliza repeats through laughter.
Her high-pitched, perky disposition exacerbates the pain of my pulsing head, the only remaining evidence of the amount of scotch and beer I consumed last night. I attempt to roll over, feeling the weight of Mickey's arm across my abdomen, holding me in place, cuddling my back.
Pushing his arm off, I fling it in the opposite direction, waking him up. "I said no spooning, asshole."
"Come on." Mickey tries to hug me as I pull away from his grasp. "Embrace my love."
"Fuck off and make us some coffee. My head's splitting." I shove him, watching as he rolls onto the floor in only his briefs. "And put some damn clothes on."
"Yeah, yeah." He chuckles as he heads to his bedroom, giving Liza a kiss on the cheek as he walks by.
Pulling my t-shirt over my head, I stumble into the kitchen, trying to recover—still slightly drunk.
Liza hands me a steaming mug full of black coffee and I bring it to my nose inhaling the fresh roast like it's a humidifier, clearing my foggy thoughts.
"Rough night?" she asks, smugly sipping her cup as she leans against the counter.
"I could be asking you the same question."
"Fair play." She shrugs her shoulders. "You know, I'd ask what happened, but based on the texts I woke up to this morning, I think I've got the gist of it." She pauses to drink her coffee, adding dramatic effect. "You're in some deep shit, huh?"
"You could say that." I slowly drink from my cup, trying to steady myself against the kitchen cabinet. "Well, since you already know my predicament..." I hesitate, nervously rubbing the back of my neck. "...is there a chance you'll help me fix it?"
"Hmmm." She taps her red, fake nail against the ceramic mug. "That depends."
"On?"
"Do you deserve to fix things?" She looks me up and down, very judgmentally.
I hope so.
"Honestly? Probably not. I really messed up. But I do care about Olivia—a fuck ton."
She hums again as I try to observe her body language, studying her nonverbal cues. Liza doesn't have any tells—not one clue conveys what she's actually thinking.
Damn. She's good.
"I have a plan to fix things. I swear I'll tell her everything once I know it's safe."
