I wasn’t drunk last night. I wasn’t slurring my words and I knew exactly what I was doing… at least, to some extent.
“You must be hungover,” he says, taking a step closer. “Stay for breakfast.”
Why is he acting like this?
“I’m not staying,” I mutter, tugging on my jeans and frantically searching for anything of mine in his room.
“Because we fu.cked last night?”
I gasp, staggering back. Maybe it’s the way he’s staring at me like he’s carved out of stone, or maybe it’s just his choice of words but I flare up.
“Listen, Justin, I’d like to keep what happened last night a secret between us. Okay?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he sets the plates down on the desk, and turns to face me. “Then let’s talk about it.”
That’s the problem—I don’t want to talk about it, not with him. H
