Back in the Saddle : (Jessica Brodie #1)

Chapter 1

I came to consciousness slowly, greeted by a pounding head. I moaned and palmed my forehead, trying to keep my brain in the casing of my skull. Why, oh why did I drink tequila last night? I had said no shots! I had stuffed my finger in each of the girls' faces, and told them, point blank, that I was way too crazy these days, and I needed to calm down. Then informed them, in a stern voice a mother might use, that the days of shots were over. Period.

I am an idiot.

When the girls were in a mood to party, the "no shot" rule was as useless as a chocolate kettle. Telling them no just made them more determined. They didn't need the life-altering change that I did. Apparently.

I opened my bleary, makeup-crusted eyes and let my head fall to the left, looking for my clock. Then I froze.

Why was there a strange glass sculpture of a bug-eyed monkey instead of my cheap, plastic alarm clock? And how did someone get away with making a glass sculpture that ugly without undergoing a business-closing lawsuit?

Through the fog of hangover, I sensed a presence behind me.

What the-?

I turned my wooden head and found a person whose face was angled away toward the pillow. His buzz cut could've possibly been a flat top, but I couldn't quite see the top of his head. My eyes scanned lower. From what I could see, and being that the sheets were around our ankles, I saw plenty: he was head-to-toe muscular. Not only that, but each muscle was fantastically defined. Really nice body, actually. He obviously put time and effort into himself.

I racked my cotton-crusted mind for old boyfriends with bodies as good as his. Even though I hadn't had a lot of good fortune with boyfriends, I held on to the hope that beneath their "bad boy," brash exterior they were sweet and gushy, like a chocolate lava cake. The only problem was that even though I lived in L.A., the land of wannabe actors and models, there were only a couple ex-boyfriends who could match a body like this man's, and those guys had been slightly ... egotistical.

So either I was lying next to Fabio, or a stranger.

No way. As a lifelong rule, I did not go home with strangers. I knew a lot of girls in college that would call me prudish, but one-night stands just didn't do it for me. What was the point? The guys were only about themselves and the next morning was torture. No thanks.

My mind snapped back to the present. I had to have a good reason for this. And that reason couldn't have been bent on the life change I so badly needed from this crazy college life I'd lived for nearly five years.

College has aged me prematurely, I thought as I sat up.

My head swirled in hangover as my eyes darted around the room. Time to get cracking.

First I probably needed to wake up this guy, who I definitely knew but just couldn't see clearly, and then...

No, first I needed clothes. I wasn't about to have a lovely morning chat with a stellar-bodied guy while I sat here sporting a few, shall we say, creases in my stomach.

My eyes locked on the sheet at our feet. I eased myself up, clutched the coarse fabric in two fistfuls and pulled. It came free from his legs and slid nicely over our bodies. I tugged a little more until I removed it from the bed so I could use it as a shield, and got up.

I tiptoed to the other side of the bed and found my things in a neat pile on a chair. My brow creased. When did I ever fold my clothes? Rarely.

Aware of my flabby parts that I absolutely didn't want seen in bright morning sunlight, I darted in like a wild animal scavenging the plains before a predator could find and kill it. Underwear, on. Bra, yes, straps...on. Nice!