by Max Monroe
With one tap to the screen, I answer it by the fourth or fifth ring.
“Hey, Samantha. It’s Andrew.”
“Um…hi?” she responds, confusion evident in her voice. “Why are you answering Birdie’s phone?”
“Well…it’s a funny story…” I pause, uncertain of how to break the news to her, but she’s quick to cut into my silence with a demand for information.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Well…Birdie might have inadvertently gotten a little high tonight, so in the name of keeping her safe, I brought her back to my place so she could sleep it off.”
“Birdie got high tonight?” she shrieks. “What are you talking about? There’s no way Birdie Harris, the woman I had to shove off to that party kicking and screaming, knowingly chose to do drugs.”
“Someone at the party gave her a brownie that happened to contain marijuana.”
“Are you kidding me?!”
“She’s fine,” I say, trying to bring some calm into the conversation. “Just sleeping it off now.”
“And you took it upon yourself to bring her back to your place instead of letting her driver take her home?” she questions, her hackles seemingly rising to new heights.
“Samantha, I swear to God, I’ve been nothing but a gentleman. If you would’ve seen just how fucked up she was, you wouldn’t have felt comfortable putting her into a car with some random driver.”
“And I swear to God, if anything happens to her, if you do anything to her, I will murder you,” she threatens. “Trust me, bucko, it won’t be a one-shot kill either. I will stretch out the pain for as long as I possibly can. Waterboarding will sound like a vacation, you understand me?”
“You have my word that nothing will happen to her.”
“Oh my God, she’s going to be so pissed tomorrow.”
“I know.” I shake my head and run a hand through my hair. “Trust me, I know.”
Yeah, I have a feeling I’m in for one hell of a morning tomorrow when Birdie wakes up…
Birdie
Waking up in an unfamiliar place and wondering how you ended up naked is generally not a good start to the day.
Seriously. What in the heck is happening right now?
I’m naked.
I’m in a bed I don’t recognize.
And, holy hell, my brain is trying to hack its way out of my skull. Who the heck gave that thing a machete?
I blink my eyes several times, sit up farther into the white pillows and bed frame behind me, and try like hell to figure out what happened last night. Glancing down at my bare boobs, I sigh heavily and proceed to look around the spacious bedroom that is most certainly not mine.
Holy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
Did I have sex last night? Did I take Sam and Billie’s advice to heart and go home with some random guy from Howie’s party? Mother. Flipping. Flapjacks. Tell me I didn’t engage in a one-night stand I can’t even remember.
My stomach churns with the horrible possibilities, and I immediately start recounting how many glasses of champagne I consumed at the party.
One…
Two…
But when I stop counting at three, I’m incredibly confused. No way three glasses of champagne would get me so messed up I don’t remember anything.
I glance around the room some more, trying to find little hints of the owner of this unfamiliar bedroom. White comforter. White sheets. Gray walls. A walk-in closet that sits on the far end of the room and appears to connect to an even larger master bathroom.
This room is luxury and serenity, all wrapped up into one expensive price tag.
When I spot what look to be male-sized boots peeking out from behind the walk-in closet threshold, my stomach drops toward my feet even further. Unless I met a female friend with freakishly large feet last night and she let me crash at her place, I did, in fact, go home with someone. A male someone.
Oh sweet baby Jesus and all the saints.
I scour through my memories of last night and try to pinpoint where it all went wrong, but I’m interrupted by the sounds of footsteps moving from an unknown location and directly toward me.
Instantly, my breath gets trapped in my lungs, and my heart pounds in my throat.
One step after the other, the soft footsteps get closer, and I grip the comforter and sheets tighter to my chest in anticipation.
Good God, what have I done? And more importantly, who have I done it with?
But when grayish-blue eyes, a firm jaw, and sexy, sleep-ruffled hair appear through the doorway, my jaw decides to try to unhinge itself from my face.
I’m in Andrew Watson’s freaking bedroom?
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“What the fuck?” The words shoot past my lips before I can think twice about them.
“Well, good morning to you too, sweetheart,” he says, his voice neutral and a stupid albeit soft grin sitting on his lips.
I just stare at him.
In a leisurely stride, he walks over to the nightstand beside me and sets down a glass of orange juice and a few red pills. “I figured you might be feeling a little hungover, so here’s some sugar and acid to help your stomach and a few ibuprofen to help your head.”
Obviously, I appreciate the kind gesture, but I think it goes without saying I’m a little more focused on figuring out why I am in his bed…naked.
I open my mouth, ready to ask him just that, but he’s quick to chime in.
“Before you get all pissy and start reading me the riot act, you need to know a few things.”
I quirk a brow. “I hope those things include an explanation of how in the hell I ended up here. In what I’m assuming is your freaking bed.”
“You are, in fact, in my bed.” He grins again. “And you had quite the night last night.”
“Quite the night?” I question. “What does that even mean?”
Clearly, I want to know how I ended up at his place, but also, I’m kind of terrified to really know. I mean, what if we had sex last night? Please, for the love of everything, tell me I didn’t sleep with Andrew Watson last night. That was rule number one on a list that only had one damn rule!
“Did we…did we…?” I pause, completely unable to even get the rest of the question past my lips, and a whisper of a chuckle escapes his throat.
I kind of expect him to taunt me for a while, hold the knowledge of everything I can’t remember over my head, but he’s forthcoming with surprising swiftness.
“If you’re wondering if we had sex last night, the answer is no, we did not. But you did manage to get a little wild.”
“Wild?” I repeat. “You’re going to have to elaborate a little more on that.”
“You ate a brownie last night.”
“A brownie? That doesn’t sound so—” Oh my God! Vivid memories of me asking two guys watching South Park if I could have one of their sweet treats flood my mind. South Park!
Jesus, how could I be so stupid?
“It wasn’t just a brownie, Birdie,” Andrew confirms what I’ve already figured out. I nod. “It was a pot brownie.” He cringes. “Pretty sure Howie’s stoner nephew Larry didn’t give you all the info about his fucking brownies, huh?”
“Um, no. He did not.”
“Frankly, Birdie, I’m tempted to press charges on that fuckup,” he says, and anger is evident in his voice.
A shocked laugh jumps from my throat. “You’re acting like he roofied me.”
“He may as well have,” he spits.
“Andrew, get serious. I’m not going to press charges on my director’s nephew for letting me eat one of his marijuana brownies. Surely, the guy was just stoned out of his mind, and I was too damn hungry and tipsy to piece it all together.” Andrew frowns in disagreement. “Don’t get me wrong, it was a real dick move, one I’m incredibly pissed off about, but I highly doubt it was intentional.”
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “He’s lucky I was too busy making sure y
ou got somewhere safe last night. Otherwise, I would’ve ended up back at How’s and kicked his fucking ass.”
His candid honesty and visible anger take me by surprise, but the thing that makes me the most curious is the reality that he felt like he had to keep me safe.
“Um… What exactly did I do last night?”
“You were high, Birdie,” he retorts. “I think we can both agree that whatever you were doing or saying was because of that. No need to rehash it all.”
My eyes go wide. That explanation certainly doesn’t make me feel better.
“Andrew,” I say through a sigh. “Just tell me what I was doing that made you feel like you had to bring me back to your house. Truthfully, a good place to start would be letting me know how I ended up naked and in your freaking bed.”
“You really want to get into all this?”
“Yes. I have to. Not knowing will drive me crazy.”
“Fine.” He sighs again and proceeds to give me the details on how the night went. He tells me about how he found me standing in one of Howie’s hallways staring at a painting on the wall and how I tried to sleep on the damn floor. And how he’d planned on taking me back to my rental, but I started to get too boisterous in the car, so he diverted to his house because it was closer.
“When we got back to my place,” he continues, “you spent the first twenty minutes rummaging through my cabinets for food. And then, you took it upon yourself to take your clothes off and get in my bed,” he explains, and I wish I could burrow myself into his damn mattress and never come out. “I did my best to make sure you were…covered up…and then I let you sleep it off.”
“Oh my God.” A deep sigh escapes my lungs, and I run a hand through my hair.
“Birdie, it’s no big deal. Nothing to be embarrassed about. You weren’t in your right mind.”
An incredulous laugh jumps from my lungs. “Too late for that.”
“Sweetheart, we’ve all been there before. Don’t lose any sleep over it.”
“Uh, nope, I haven’t been there before. I’ve never gotten high in my whole darn life.” My stomach twists and turns as I think about all the people at that party. “Oh God,” I mutter and put a hand to my lips. “Tell me I didn’t say or do anything crazy in the middle of Howie’s party.” My voice rises in uncertainty. “There were so many people there and—”
“Birdie,” he cuts me off, his voice so soft and genuine that it catches me off guard. “Besides How’s nephew Larry and his loser friend Carl, I’m literally the only one who saw you all fucked up. Almost everyone at the party had already left before you accidentally got high. Don’t sweat it. It’s all good.”
Never in my life did I think Andrew Watson of all people would be reassuring me about my apparent outrageous behavior. If anything, I would’ve expected him to tease me mercilessly.
I search his eyes, and he sighs.
“Now, what are you freaking out about?”
“I’m not freaking out,” I retort, but he quirks a knowing brow. “Okay, fine, I am freaking out, but I’m also wondering why you of all people are being so nice to me right now.”
“Seriously, Birdie?” He shrugs. “I’m an asshole. I admit it. I like to poke fun and tease and banter with the best of them, but I’m not a fucking shitbag. I don’t take advantage of women, and I don’t condone anyone else doing it either.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
But he doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Give me a minute to grab you some clothes, and then I’ll give you some privacy to get dressed,” he says, heading out of his bedroom and down the hall.
Only a few minutes pass before he’s back with an armful of clothes that are definitely not mine.
“Since you managed to rip a hole in that dress of yours and you spent a large part of our drive home bitching about your shoes, here’s some clean clothes and sandals you can wear.” He tosses them down onto the bed beside me. A T-shirt, boxer briefs, sweatpants, even a pair of flip-flops, I finger through them briefly to find that some appear to be female-sized.
Where in the heck did he get girl flip-flops?
And he might be willing to sport a blond mullet, but I have a hard time believing he’d don these Victoria’s Secret Pink sweatpants.
“Uh…I get the whole ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ thing going on right now, but mind telling me who these clothes belong to? Besides the boxer briefs and T-shirt, no way these flip-flops and sweatpants are yours.”
I swear to God, if he’s giving me leftover clothes from one of his fuck buddies, I’ll put my damn dress and stilettos back on.
“My brother Lance and his wife Kelly came to visit me last summer, and my sister-in-law left a few things behind.”
“Oh,” I respond, and then find myself asking, “You have a brother?”
“Yeah, I do.” He tilts his head to the side, and an amused grin crests the corners of his lips. “Is it weird for you that I have a sibling?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I just never pictured you having a sibling, I guess.”
Truthfully, besides thinking of him as a pompous asshole who goes through women quicker than I go through a bag of Doritos, I haven’t really thought about his life outside of Hollywood.
“Man, well, get ready for some more surprises because I also have a mom and dad,” he adds with a little grin. “Shocking, I know, but it’s the truth.”
“I thought Satan’s conception was immaculate?” I ask, a teasing hint to my voice, and a soft laugh escapes his lips.
“Very funny, smartass,” he retorts. “I might get some enjoyment out of riling you up, but—”
“Wait…just some enjoyment?”
“Fine. A lot of enjoyment, but I think we can both agree I’m not an evil bastard. Right? Can we please agree on that?”
For some strange reason, his words make me feel a little bad about my joking dig. It seems really important to him that I recognize he’s not complete scum.
“You’re right,” I respond and offer an apologetic smile. “While my little Satan jab was pretty funny, I realize now that it was also a little uncalled-for. Sorry about that.” I stare down at the clothes on the bed and run my fingers hesitantly over the T-shirt. “And you should know, I really appreciate everything you did for me last night,” I add, willing my eyes to look up into his steady gaze. “So, thank you for preventing what most likely could’ve been an absolute catastrophe.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, accepting my apology without hesitation. “And by the way, you have some phone calls and messages to return.”
“Phone calls?”
He nods and pulls my cell phone out of the back pocket of his jeans and hands it over to me. “I’ve already talked to your assistant Samantha twice. Once last night, and then again this morning. She’s a ballbuster, that one. Told me she’d straight-up murder me if anything happened to you.” He smirks. “And I’m pretty sure your sister Billie has called you a few times, but after dealing with your assistant, I wasn’t sure I’d survive your sister.”
I stare down at the phone in my hands, noting all the missed calls and message notifications on the locked screen.
“Anyway, you get dressed. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”
As Andrew walks out of his bedroom, I check the time and realize it’s already five past noon.
Shit! I was supposed to meet Billie and Rocky for lunch, and I’m already late!
And along with the missed calls, inside my text inbox sit four messages asking me where in the hell I am.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Quickly, I type out a text to both of them.
Me: Hey, so, I’m running a little behind. Go ahead and order lunch, and I’ll get there as soon as I can.
Instead of waiting for them to respond, I jump out of the bed and run around like a maniac trying to get myself together. This is the last place I should be coming from heading into a lunch with the two of them.
Good God. What a mes
s.
Andrew
Birdie in my boxer briefs is a sight I’d pay a lot of money to see.
I leave her in my bedroom to get dressed and head into the kitchen.
Honestly, that whole interaction didn’t go as I’d expected.
In fact, for as rocky as it was when the conversation started, it almost seemed like we were getting along by the end.
Maybe I’d made an impression by stepping up to the plate last night. It also probably helped that she managed to sleep like a rock for a good eight hours.
Which is more than I can say for myself. I’ve been up since seven, already managed some breakfast, a workout, and a shower, and spent a good part of my morning talking to Howie about his conversation with his nephew.
Apparently, shit went down this morning when he woke up a sleeping Larry with a bucket of ice-cold water and proceeded to ream his ass about the brownie stunt he pulled last night.
This isn’t the first time his nephew has caused trouble while staying with How.
And, personally, until my best friend wakes the fuck up and kicks Larry out of his house, it won’t be the last either.
But Howie has a big heart, and his sister Susan, Larry’s mom, has proved over the years that her drug addiction is more important than being a good example for her son. That’s why Larry is living with Howie in the first place. And, unfortunately, even though Larry is now twenty-three and could certainly get a job and start living on his own, that’s probably why he’ll keep on living with his far-too-kind uncle.
It’s kind of infuriating, but it’s not my business.
If Howie wants to keep letting his nephew mooch off him, then that’s his decision. I just wish he’d open his eyes and realize the guilt that’s perpetuating this situation is doing Larry more harm than good.
My phone pings with a message, and I snag it from the kitchen island to find a text from Howie.
Howie: How’s Birdie doing this morning?
Me: Just a little hungover, I think, but otherwise, she’s good.
Howie: Fuck. I feel terrible this happened at my goddamn house.