Let’s be clear—there’s nothing unusual about a strange woman being passed out in my bed. But usually, she’s wearing fewer clothes. And I get to share the bed, too.

I stop in the bedroom doorway, rolling my shoulders to work out the kinks after that night on the sofa. Maggie Hayes is sprawled exactly where I left her after she teetered in here with me last night, still dead to the world. The sheet I tugged over her drapes those delectable curves I can’t help admiring again. Damn, I’d like to get cozy with those sometime soon.

Her lively brown eyes are shut and that saucy mouth is pressed into the pillow. I wish I’d gotten the chance to find out if those lips taste as sweet as her baking, but contrary to what the tabloids say, I’m not a total manwhore. Making a move on a woman who can barely stand falls way outside my comfort zone, and Maggie was so drunk by the time she got off that bar stool, there really wasn’t anything to do but put her to bed to sleep it off.

Who would have thought quiet, awkward Maggie from across the street would grow up this hot? And that wicked tongue on her . . .

We are definitely going to have to do this again. With less alcohol and lots more dirty talk. Hopefully developing into dirty everything else. I might have slowed down a bit since my fangirl heyday, but I’ve still got plenty of moves.

My phone starts ringing with the latest hit song of one of my clients. So I close the bedroom door and head across to the kitchen counter where I left the thing.

I don’t recognize the incoming number. “Hello?”

“Hey, Drew! Great to hear your voice, man. How’s it hanging?”

Charlie. My former bandmate’s drawl is instantly recognizable even through a staticky connection. I guess he switched numbers again—probably to avoid someone he owes money to, a girl he’s running away from, or both.

“Hi, Charlie,” I say evenly, leaning back against the counter. Any bets on how long it’ll take him to ask for a handout this time? “Good to hear from you too. I thought you were still out in Colorado?”

Aka, rehab.

“Great, man. Amazing, really. They work wonders at that place. I’ve been totally clean for a year now, if you can believe that.”

“I’m happy for you,” I say carefully. Charlie got framed as the joker of the band, but he hasn’t seemed to be having much fun since the group fell apart. When it’s not rehab, there’ll be some trashy reality TV show he’s begged his way onto or some bad investment setting him back yet again. “So what are you up to these days?”

“Oh, you know, a little of this and a little of that. Have you heard from the other guys lately?”

“Just Wade, on the business side of things. As far as I know, Chris is busy with the family-man thing and Eli with uncovering all the levels of his spirituality.”

“Right,” Charlie says. “I talked to him a couple years back, and it was all dharma this and nirvana that. Hard to figure, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Eli got stuck with the “cool rebel” role, probably because of his James Dean-ish looks, and he partied harder than any of us. An addictive personality, he’d always joke, but I guess it’s better to be all-in on enlightenment than self-destruction.

Charlie clears his throat. “Well, anyway, I’m going to be in Philly soon. You’re up that way now, right? I’ll have to swing by so we can catch up properly.”

“Sure,” I say. “Give me a call when you’re in town.”

“Aight. Peace, bro. Keep it real.”

I hang up the phone and sigh. It’s hard to believe that back in the day the five of us were as close as brothers. When a bunch of people are forced to do pretty much everything together all the time, you either bond like Super Glue or implode like a supernova. We were the Super Glue for the first few years. Didn’t stop the implosion coming, though, but looking back, it was inevitable.

The higher you rise, the faster you fall.

Even now, I don’t know what triggered the shit-show. A million tiny things boiling away under the surface until it all exploded. Bickering over song credits, petty jealousy, whispers in our ears from all the hangers-on swearing that we were the real stars, and the others were just dead weight, holding us back. Plus the stress of life on the road didn’t help. A hundred cities, full of girls screaming our names. We worked like dogs, putting on a smile and a show for the world, but behind the scenes, we were unraveling. The label did their best to keep a lid on it; they had way too much money riding on us to watch their superstar band break apart. They figured if they had us locked down together 24/7, we wouldn’t have the time or energy to fight.

They were wrong. The whole thing was just a pressure cooker, and one day, in a tour bus somewhere between Berlin and Antwerp, the whole thing just blew.

It was bad. Tabloid exposé, ripped up contracts, headline news bad. Things got said that you can’t take back. I’m not saying I wasn’t at fault, too. I’ll shoulder my share of the blame. I was young and cocky, and believed the hype, and as much as I loved those guys like brothers, well . . . every family can be capable of some knock-down, drag-out fist-flying feuds. It took us all a long time to move on from that shit-show, but we all came back down to earth eventually, and we’ve just about reached a kind of civil peace—less blood brothers, more like those distant cousins you keep up with on Facebook, and see once in a blue moon to politely shoot the shit.

But we did have a lot of fun, way back. And living through that crazy experience together . . . it bonds you. I want the best for those guys, and hearing from Charlie . . . Well, maybe the rehab thing did actually stick this time. It’d be nice to see him finally turn his life around.

I turn my attention back to the present, and more pressing matters—like the gorgeous, mouthy woman passed out in my bed. Something tells me she’s not easy to impress, but pulling off a breakfast that manages to meet her approval should earn me some points. Knocking her socks off—followed by her dress, followed by her panties—would be even better, but I’m in no hurry.

Removing the rest of her clothes can wait until after we’ve eaten.

I’ve got French toast and bacon sizzling in the pan when the bedroom door opens. Maggie edges out. She looks rumpled and sexy, with dark brown curls haloing her face, but her expression is hesitant.

“Hey,” she says, crossing her arms over the wrinkled fabric of her dress. “So, er, last night . . .”

I pause. She clearly has no idea what happened, and after all the banter she threw at me yesterday, I can’t resist teasing, just a little.

“Pretty great, huh?” I flash a satisfied grin. “Spectacular, even. But I’d guess we both worked up quite an appetite. French toast?”

Her eyes widen. “So we—”

“I like to take it a little slower these days, but it’s hard to say no to such an enthusiastic partner. You’ve corrupted me all over again, Maggie Hayes.”

She’s blushing now. Fuck, it’s the most adorable and the most sexy thing I’ve ever seen. “I, um . . . what exactly . . . ?”

She bites her lower lip, which is sexy as hell too, but I figure the joke’s gone on long enough.

“Hey. I’m kidding,” I admit. “It looks like you got pretty intimate with my pillow, but otherwise your reputation is intact. I figured you might rather crash here than have me drop you off at your parents’ place the way you were.”

She exhales in a rush. “Oh, thank God.”

“Hey!” I protest. I’ve never had someone so relieved not to sleep with me. “For your information, it would have been spectacular. Leave a guy a little dignity.”

She eyes the contents of the frying pan. “I’m sure you’ve gotten enough compliments from enough women over the years that your pride is pretty much bulletproof.”

“Personally I think quality is more important than quantity.”

“Is that a new version of ‘size doesn’t matter’?” she laughs, then winces.

“How’s your head?” I ask. “I can grab you a painkiller if you need.” I may not wake up in a hung over daze half as often as in my boyband days, but I remember the after-effects.

She closes her eyes. “That sounds like a good idea. I might have gone a little overboard last night. Sorry I imposed. And . . . thank you.”

I pour her a tall glass of water, retrieve the aspirin, and start dishing out breakfast. Maggie’s color starts coming back as she eyes the food. She takes some bacon and demolishes it in a couple of bites. A smile.

Score.

I get distracted watching the movements of those full lips. The things I’d like to do to them . . .

Maggie’s phone chimes, and she looks around.

“By the door,” I tell her, nodding to where I left her purse.

“Thanks.” She goes to check her phone. I decide it’s time to lock down a real date—one with slightly less booze, and way fewer clothes.

“So,” I say, carrying the plates over to the glass-topped table, “what would you say to—?”

“Shit,” Maggie interrupts. If I thought she looked disturbed at the thought of drunken blackout sex, her current expression tops that by about a hundred percent. “My mom’s called, like, ten times.”

“So call her back?”

“I don’t think that’s going to be good enough at this point.” She exhales sharply. “She’s freaking out that I didn’t come home last night. God, this is like being back in high school.” She grabs her jacket and backs towards the door. “Sorry, I’d better skip on breakfast. Thanks again!”

I can think of lots of ways I’d enjoy being thanked by her, but she’s already out the door and down the hallway. It slams shut behind her, and I’m left with two plates of breakfast—and no sign she ever wants to see me again.

Hmmm. I pause, thrown. Most women wouldn’t flee my apartment without slipping me their number and making plans, but I’ve already got an inkling that Maggie isn’t most women.

But it did sound like she’s back in town for a while. I’ll just have to make sure we bump into each other again, and soon. Because whatever that woman is cooking up, I know I want another taste.