Sometime around six in the morning, I blearily opened my eyes to a heavy sensation on my bare stomach.

A large hand was resting there. And this wasn’t my bed.

Shit. What the heck had I done last night?

With a soft groan, I shifted to the right, sneaking a peek at the man lying next to me. I didn’t recognize him, but he was good looking.

I racked my brain, trying hard to remember the previous night. The last thing I recalled was dancing at a nightclub with my best friend, Rachael. We’d been laughing, drunk out of our minds. This stranger must have been there as well.

Double shit.

My very first drunken one-night stand.

Or was it?

With trepidation, I patted my hands over my chest. Bra still on. Good. Then lower. Skinny jeans on too. Excellent. Which meant Stranger and I hadn’t done the dirty.

I glanced over at him again, reluctantly admiring his handsome features. His thick blond hair fell over closed eyes, his lower lip was relaxed into a sexy pout. From my quick study of him, I could tell he was quite tall, maybe around six two. Tanned and muscular.

In a sober state, I’d never have dared approach someone this pretty. Drunkenness had a way of making me atrociously bold.

Carefully, I rose and threw on my yellow blouse, my fingers flying down the buttons. I had to get out of here before Blondie woke up and demanded to know who the hell I was.

I was slipping into my leopard-print pumps when Blondie rolled over, groaned, and blinked rapidly.

He’s got green eyes. So pretty.

Then his prettiness ended.

“Who the fuck are you?” he croaked, quickly scanning the very spacious and modern-looking bedroom.

What was he looking for? Then I realized—he wasn’t looking for anything. He was checking to see if I’d stolen some of his pathetic shit.

Un-fucking-believable.

“I could ask you the same question,” I snapped, pulling my messy hair into a loose bun. I tried not to stare at his broad chest—damn, he was one pretty buck. Pity about that rude mouth of his.

“You’re in my penthouse,” he pointed out, but this time, his stern expression relaxed into a lazy grin. “Now I remember you. You’re that drunk brunette who spilled her drink all over me last night. Then you grabbed my collar and demanded I take you back to my place to give you a vigorous spanking for being such a bad girl.” His mouth curled up. “Your words, not mine.”

I snorted with mirth. “Blondie, I would never ask a stranger for a ‘vigorous spanking’.” Giving him an unimpressed once-over, I added, “Especially from one who looks like he supports his hedonistic lifestyle with Daddy’s millions.”

Blondie didn’t seem offended in the slightest. Without breaking eye contact, he nestled his head on a pillow. “Funny, because you looked pretty impressed last night. Remember all the fun things we did?”

“We didn’t do anything. I woke up with my jeans still on.”

The corners of his lips curled up even more. “Who said anything about intercourse?” He took on a gleeful look. “As I recall, after you gushed on and on about my penthouse and my exceedingly good looks, you reached over and unzipped my fly to—”

“Okay, stop talking.” I raised my palms in a pleading gesture. “I don’t know exactly how I ended up here, but I’m leaving now. Thanks for the comfy bed and all, but I really hope I don’t run into you ever again.”

Throwing a glare over my shoulder, I hurriedly left the bedroom and found my way to the foyer. As I pushed the down button for the elevator, my phone buzzed in my clutch bag. It was Rachel, who had apparently abandoned my drunk ass sometime between midnight and two in the morning, according to the previous text from her I was just now seeing.

“So, Tiffany, did you have fun?” she breathed into my ear, sounding overly excited. “He’s so hot. I bet he was good in bed too.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I retorted, stepping in when the doors opened. “All I did was crash at his pretentious penthouse for the night.” And thank goodness for that, I added silently. In my usual life, I was a pretty tame and boring sort of gal. I’d never had a one-night stand, much less one with a complete stranger. There were way too many psychos roaming the streets and clubs for me to ever consider such a thing.

Rachel made a disappointed noise. “Are you kidding me? I thought the plan was to get over your stupid ex by sleeping with the hottest guy at the club.”

Ah, now I remembered why we’d been at the club in the first place. So I could get over my lame ex, Andy Morris, who’d dumped me via a single, brusque text two weeks ago.

Met another girl. Sorry, Tiff. It’s over.

Asshole.

And when I’d tried to call him several times, it’d gone straight to voicemail.

But the even worst part?

Andy was my manager at Morning Brew, the corner coffee shop where I’d been working for the past year after graduating with my degree in history.

I’d have to find another job now, because working alongside him since the break up had been awkward and tense.

I sighed, rubbing my eyes. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to go to Plan B, then.”

“There’s a Plan B?”

“Yeah. Stay home all day, eat lots of Chinese food, chocolate and watch movies until I get over that scrawny fucker. Oh, and look for a new job.”

“If you say so, that sounds like something I’m up for. I’ll bring the beer.”

I sniffed, suddenly feeling emotional. “Thanks, Rach.”

After we hung up, I stepped out of the tall glass building and stood on the sidewalk, hugging myself. I felt like such a loser—my boyfriend had dumped me via text, I was twenty-three and pending jobless, my current apartment was old and creepy, and I’d just stumbled out of a stranger’s penthouse after a night of miscellanous sexual activities I couldn’t remember.

My lower lip trembled. Could life get any worse than this?

Before I could burst into tears right next to the busy street, I hailed down a cab and went home to my creaky apartment in the East Village.

An hour later, Rachael and I were both dressed in our pajamas and stuffing our faces with oily fried noodles loaded with shrimp and veggies. Since I was soon-to-be unemployed, she’d paid for all our food and beer.

“See, I don’t get that.” Rachel pointed her chopsticks at the credits scrolling up the TV screen from one of my favorite movies, The Proposal.

It was nice to have an employed friend in times of distress.

Unlike me, Rachel had majored in a sensible field—education. Sure, the pay wasn’t all that great, and many times, she had to deal with unruly kindergarteners and helicopter parents. But it was steady work. And she did like kids, as long as they didn’t grab her boobs or pick their noses. Which was unfailingly often.

“Don’t get what?” I muttered as I slurped noodles into my mouth. I had to bulk up now to prepare for the lean times ahead.

Rachel’s sandy hair spilled over her shoulders as she shook her head. “That ending. How does Ryan Reynolds’ character go from hating Sandra Bullock’s character for years, and then falling in love with her after one short weekend?”

I shrugged and reached for the pork dumplings. “There’s a fine line between love and hate. Despite all that hatred between them, I bet he was attracted to her even as he loathed her.”

Rachel snorted. “Well, I think it’s unrealistic.”

She chose another movie—this time, it was Man of Steel because of her stalkerish love for Henry Cavill. As she settled back into the sofa, I went to the kitchen to grab a can of Coke. All that grease was starting to churn inside my stomach.

Minutes later, Rachel ambled into the kitchen, holding out my cell phone. “There’s a guy on the phone who wants to talk to you. Says his name is Denton.”

I frowned. “Denton? I don’t know anyone named Denton.” But I took the phone from her. “Hello?”

There was a deep chuckle on the other end. “Never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad to hear your voice.”

For some odd reason, I instantly recognized that voice. “How the hell did you get my number, Blondie?”

“Apparently, you gave it to me because I found it on my list of contacts. Under ‘Drunk Cute Girl’.”

“So why did you call? If you’re missing a Pomeranian, go interrogate someone else. I don’t kidnap helpless dogs.”

He laughed again. “You’re one weird chick, you know that? I don’t own a Pomeranian. But I am missing something. And I think you’re the perfect person to help me find it.”

“No can do, Denton.” Stupid, posh name. “Take care of your own problems.”

“What if I offered payment for your time? Let’s say around five thousand dollars for the first week?”

Oh my god. The rich douchebag was offering me a temp job. That amount was over two months’ of work serving coffee and sandwiches at Morning Brew.

“Yes,” I blurted, before the pride swirling in my chest could kick in. Would pride pay for rent and feed me in the days to come? Frankly, I could do without my conscience for one week.

Denton seemed surprised by my quick response. “I’m glad to hear it, Tiffany. Come to the penthouse on Monday at eight a.m. And bring some decent coffee on the way.”

He hung up before I could pepper him with questions.

It was only much later that I realized he’d called me by my name, and not Drunk Cute Girl.