Between the Lines

Morning Headaches

*Brianna*

The sun peeked through the curtains, rousing me from a deep sleep. My head throbbed slightly, a reminder of the night before. I squinted at the sunlight invading my room, feeling disoriented as I realized I was in my own bed. I groaned, pulling the duvet over my head, trying to shield myself from the memory of last night. But it all came rushing back: the pub, the drinks, and Alex freaking Cooperfield, of all people, being the gentleman who made me pinky swear I'd be safe going home with him.

I groaned, reaching for my phone on the nightstand. As soon as the screen lit up, my eyes widened. A notification popped up: *Alex Cooperfield has followed you*. I stared at it for a second, trying to wrap my mind around the idea of him searching for me on Instagram. My first reaction was annoyance. *Seriously, what a creep*, I thought. But the corners of my mouth betrayed me as they tugged upwards into a slight, reluctant smile.

Then, another notification caught my eye—a DM request. My pulse quickened as I opened it, reading his message: *"You're welcome."* That's it? That's all he had to say? I rolled my eyes so hard it almost hurt, yet I couldn't help but let out a small chuckle. *Why did he have to be so cocky?*

Despite his reputation, Alex was... surprisingly decent. A gentleman, even. And that pinky promise—so childish, yet somehow comforting. I would never admit it out loud, but it had put me at ease, enough to let him take me home.

I smiled at the thought of how serious he'd been when he made that silly promise, like it was the most important thing in the world.
But then, reality hit me like a truck —oh God—the phone call. Did I really call Elena? Did I just fucking call her wedding stupid?
My heart raced as I hurried to check my call logs, fearing the worst. But to my immense relief, I saw that it wasn't Elena I'd called—it was Olivia. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, collapsing back onto my pillow. *Thank God.* That would've been a disaster.

Quickly, I shot a text to Olivia:

Brianna: Sorry for calling you in the middle of the night...

Olivia: Lol, I'm just glad I wasn't that bitch. Who the fuck is your plus one?

Brianna: Totally made that up, Liv. Love you, talk to you soon xx

I laughed, feeling some of the tension ease out of my shoulders. At least I hadn't completely embarrassed myself.

To distract myself from the chaos, I sat up, grabbed my laptop, and began rewatching my interview with Alex from the night before. I needed to review it anyway, to make sure I hadn't missed anything important. But as I watched, all I could think about was how annoyingly charming he'd been.
Alex had been good—annoyingly good. Even when he was flirting, he somehow managed to come off as charismatic. I was supposed to be the professional here, not some starstruck fan.

Just as I was starting to settle back into work mode, my phone rang. The shrill tone startled me, and I fumbled with the device before answering. It was Elena.

"Brianna! Where the hell are you?" Her voice was frantic, completely skipping over the usual pleasantries.

"Uh, I'm in England, Elena. Remember?" I replied, trying to keep my tone even.

"What? Why? I need you here, Bri. The bachelorette party needs planning, and I can't do it alone. The rehearsal dinner is next week in Venice, and everything needs to be perfect! You know how important this is to me!"

Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. Venice. Next week. And she still expected me to help plan her bachelorette party? My head spun with the sheer audacity of it all.

"Elena, I'm working," I said, trying to inject some reason into the conversation.

"I know, but this is my wedding, Brianna. You're my maid of honor. You have to be here! And don't forget, you can bring your plus one to the rehearsal dinner. It'll be so romantic!"

I gritted my teeth, biting back the urge to tell her exactly what I thought of her and her "romantic" rehearsal dinner.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Yeah, I'll be there."

"Perfect! Can't wait, I'll give the deets of what I would like for my party."

Before I could protest or even suggest alternatives, she'd hung up. I stared at my phone, the weight of the situation sinking in. This was happening. I was going to Venice, to my ex's wedding, and to plan a bachelorette party for the girl who was marrying him.

I tossed my phone on the bed, feeling the rage bubbling up inside me. But instead of letting it consume me, I channeled it into something productive—like replying to Alex's DM.
*That's not productive at all, Brianna.*

I stared at the message, biting my lip. I typed out my response, fingers hovering over the keyboard as I debated how to play this. In the end, I settled on feigning obliviousness.

Me: "Why would I ever say thank you?"

His response was almost immediate, like he was waiting for it.

Alex: "Because I made sure you got home safe and sound, Bri. Like the gentleman I was born to be."

I rolled my eyes. Typical. He even made it rhyme. I smirked as I typed back a response.

Me: "Don't flatter yourself, Cooperfield."

His reply came quicker than I expected:

Alex: "Will you be coming hungover to this morning's press conference with the Coach and team?"

"Shit!" I cursed out loud. I'd completely forgotten about the press conference. Glancing at the clock, I realized I had less than an hour to get ready.

I jumped up, heading straight for my closet. I needed something professional yet stylish—something that screamed "I've got my shit together," even if I didn't. I settled on a sleek, tailored navy blazer with matching high-waisted pants. The blazer had gold buttons that added just the right amount of flair. Underneath, I wore a simple white silk blouse, the top two buttons undone, just enough to keep things classy but not boring.

In front of the mirror, I applied makeup to cover up the signs of my late night. A touch of concealer to hide the dark circles, a sweep of bronzer to give my cheeks some life, and a hint of highlighter to make my chocolate-colored eyes pop. I finished with a pink lip combo and a few swipes of mascara.

Satisfied with the result, I grabbed my bag and keys, making a mental note to stop for coffee on the way. I wasn't about to let Alex Cooperfield—or anyone else—see me falter. Not today. Not ever.