Epic Fail

Monumental screw-up.

This situation is exactly why I spend the majority of my free time gaming and staying far, far away from parties.

If I drink too much when playing with my friends online, the worst that happens is I fall asleep, face on my keyboard, and wake to find my character trampled by a passing monster.

But, if I indulge in too much alcohol socialising in real life, the consequences are far greater than waking up in the game’s graveyard.

Such as, waking up naked in Marshall Fraser’s bed.

I pull the sheet over my head and close my eyes, swearing under my breath before taking another tentative look at the man beside me.

He sleeps, back turned to me, brown hair mussed, his powerful arms wrapped around the sheets only half-covering his tall frame.

Marshall. Tall, self-assured, and that sneaky skill that charms girls into thinking they’re the one. Even girls like me who’ve spent the last few months watching said guy with a new girl every few weeks. He broke from a long-term relationship six months ago, and I waited for him to overcome his heartbreak. I fooled myself the attention sent my way when we spend evenings out as a group meant this gorgeous, funny guy wanted me.

The gorgeous, funny, naked guy.

Naked too. Need clothes. No choice but to move. Hoping the snoring emanating from Marshall means he’s comatose from our heavy night, I creep out of the bed to retrieve my dress from the floor.

The sensation an elephant trampled my head while I was asleep doesn’t help and I stumble, landing on my ass on the floor with a thud. Omigod he can’t see me naked. Again. Snatching the short, red, retro heart-printed dress from nearby, I hold it against myself—and hold my breath. Marshall grumbles in his sleep but doesn’t move.

As I dress in record time, recollections of our time together tumble into my mind. At this point, I refuse to wander along that particular memory lane. Yes, I wanted this, but the sex was bloody awful and will not be repeated. But what did I expect from a guy who struts around like he’s a gift from the gods to mere mortal women?

A man whose moves are lifted straight from internet porn.

Ugh. Not thinking. Dressing. Leaving.

After a struggle with my clothes, I sit on the floor at the edge of the bed and stare around the room. The Australian sunshine pushes through the curtains illuminating his bedroom and the organised perfection I never noticed in the lights-out events last night.

I’ve never met a guy who lives in an environment where nothing’s out of place, where the bed sheets match the cushions, and clothes are neatly hung in the nearby walk-in robe. In comparison, my bedroom in the house I share with my best friend, Erin, could be described as eclectic or—as she calls it—a huge mess.

I shake myself out of marvelling at his domesticity and crawl across the floor towards my shoes. My phone rests on the rug next to them and, with relief, I grab it.

Time to beat a hasty retreat before Marshall wakes and we engage in awkward conversation.

But the inner Evie, who’s lusted after Marshall for months, wants to know his morning-after reaction. Hypocritically, I want him to wake and ask why I’m leaving, to beg me to arrange a date because he wants us to spend more time together.

The other Evie doesn’t want anybody to know this happened.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror. God, I look as awful as I feel. I blow away a tendril of long, tangled, auburn hair; beneath, dull green eyes peer back, my smudged eye make-up adding extra horror to my pale face.

“You leaving?” The sleepy voice comes from a hungover, looking-like-crap Marshall, who’s rolled onto his back to watch me. Sure, bedhead hair looks sexy on this guy, but the bleary eyes and pale face to match mine? Not so much.

“Um. yes. Work. Like, this afternoon. Need to get home organised and...” My stammering trails off as he turns away again.

“Cool. I’ll call you,” he tells the wall he’s facing.

“Right. Okay.”

An awkward pause joins the mortifying situation.

“So. Um. Bye,” I say, attempting to hide my annoyance.

He rolls to face me again, the sheet slipping from his chest, him smirking as he notices the gym-honed magnificence catching my eye. “Fetch me a coffee before you go, sweetheart.”

And that is my cue to leave.

Evie Taylor, you’re a bloody idiot.