“What the fuck have I done?”
I’ve never had a one-night stand, but I’m positive those aren’t the first words you want to hear the morning after.
I twist in the warm yet unfamiliar sheets and can taste last night’s whiskey in my mouth.
I lick my lips—wrong move—and regret it when the flavor of him hits my tongue. Him.
The man pacing in front of me with his head tipped down while wearing only boxer briefs that show off his bulge.
I’ve lost count of the number of times the word fuck has fallen from his mouth.
I don’t know what to say.
Don’t know what to do.
“How the fuck could I have done this?” he continues.
My heart rams into my rib cage, just as hell-bent on escaping this situation as I am.
So damn stupid.
I drag the sheet up until it hits my chin, and he runs a hand through his thick bedhead hair, tugging at the roots the same way I did last night when he went down on me. He doesn’t know I am awake and can hear him, but that doesn’t make the wound any less severe.
His head rises when I jump out of bed and start scrambling for my clothes. The sheet drops from my body at the same time I frantically pull my dress over my head.
I have to get out of here.
Our eyes meet as I pull my panties up. Apology and torture spill across his clenching jaw. The tears are coming, warning me to look away so that he won’t see my humiliation, but I can’t. I stare and silently beg him to change the outcome of this morning. The string to our stare down is cut by the sound of my name, a mere whisper falling from his loose lips.
I dart out of the bedroom, snag my purse I drunkenly threw over the arm of the couch, and rush toward the front door, not even bothering to search for my heels.
I refuse to glance back, but I hear him. No, I feel him behind me.
“Willow, please,” he pleads to my back with a strained voice while I fight with the lock.
I slam my fist against it. When did they start making these things so damn difficult?
“Don’t cry.” He blows out a stressed breath. “Just give me a fucking minute, okay?” Relief hits me when the lock finally cooperates, and I slam the glass door in his face at the same time he repeats my name. I nearly trip on my feet when I jump down the porch steps.
I pause when I make it to the last one.
Against my will, I turn around for one last glance.
He’s staring at me in agony with the door handle gripped in his hand. For a split second, I’m stupid enough to think he’ll fix this. Stupid enough to believe he’ll say something, do something to make this right.
But he doesn’t.
He drops the handle, spreads both palms against the glass, and bows his head. That’s my cue to get the hell out of here.
Fuck my stupid decisions.
This is what I get for sleeping with a man mourning his dead wife.