Page 31 of Just for the Plot

Oh FUCK, I’m in Bennett’s bed.

I quickly look down at myself and see that I’m fully clothed, but not just clothed, I’m in a T-shirt and shorts.

Thank God for that.

I do a quick scan of the room for any evidence of misbehavior, but when I don’t see a condom wrapper in sight, and nor do I feel the utter satisfaction of being with someone, I know that nothing happened last night.

With that knowledge firmly in place, I slowly get out of bed because, well, hangover, and head toward the kitchen, where I find Bennett on the ground in nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants, holding his foot.

“Uh…are you okay?”

“Stubbed my fucking toe on the fucking dining room fucking table.”

“That’s a lot of fuckings.”

“That’s how bad it hurt.”

“Can I help you?” I ask, even though the pain of my pounding head is probably going to prevent me from leaning down to help him out.

“Nah, I’m fine,” he says before flexing his foot and then hopping up from the ground and walking straight to the kitchen as if he didn’t spend the night drinking his body weight in booze. He grabs two mugs and starts pouring us both coffee as my eyes wander over his chest, reminding me of the first time I saw it last night.

Bennett Brinkman is all grown up.

Not just grown up but ripped.

He doesn’t just have muscles, no, there isn’t an ounce of body fat on him. His muscles seem to pop right underneath his skin, his veins in his forearms flexing as he pours a cup of coffee, and his pecs seem thicker than I even remember from last night. Strong, powerful, can probably spend a good amount of time tossing a woman around in bed…

“I ordered some breakfast tacos,” he says as he lifts up to hand me my coffee. I direct my eyes to his face just in time. “Got the kind with crispy bacon that I know you like.”

“How do you know I like that?”

He smirks over his mug. “I pay attention to shit.” He sets his mug down and allows his eyes to scan over me. “Are you hungover?”

“What the hell do you think?” I ask as I move toward the dining room and take a seat. “And please, don’t rub your youth in my face, because from your fresh eyes and clarity, I can already tell that you’re not as affected by copious amounts of alcohol consumption as I am, and I can’t stomach that thought right now, so please, spare me.”

“Do you want me to pretend to be hungover?”

“Please.” I sip my coffee, letting the caffeine run through my veins and awaken me.

“Oh fuck,” he says, hobbling toward me, hunched over and looking absolutely ridiculous. “What the hell did we do last night? I’m so hungover.”

I stare at him.

Blink.

“It’s a little dramatic.”

“Just mimicking you.”

I flip him off, which makes him laugh.

“Other than what seems to be one hell of a hangover, did you sleep okay?” he asks.

“I did, although…” I chuckle. “For a second, when I woke up in your bed, I had a minor heart attack that we might have done something stupid.”

“And what would that be?” he asks as there’s a knock at his door. He retrieves what I’m assuming is our food before stopping in the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of ibuprofen.

As he dishes out the food, I say, “You know…fuck.”