Page 22 of Sweet Redemption

I try to force my eyes open but fail miserably. “Livvy . . .”

Well, that’s not good. Pretty sure it shouldn’t hurt to speak. My throat feels like I swallowed splinters wrapped in fire, and the way my stomach is churning, I think I tried to douse it with alcohol instead of water.

“Liv . . .” I try again, a little louder this time.

Ohhh . . . That hurts worse.

“Olivia, I swear to God, if you don’t turn off your goddamned alarm, I’m going to throw your phone out the window.” I try to turn her way.

Emphasis on try because a strong arm wraps around me and yanks me back against a solid chest.

What the actual fuck?

“It’s Vegas, little Kingston. The windows don’t open.”

Vegas . . . We’re in Vegas.

I crack my eye open—not as easy as it should be, but okay—to find Olivia on one side of me, which means . . . Oh God . . .

“Mornin’, beautiful.” Rafe Langley smiles like it’s the most normal thing in the world for—wait . . .

I look over Olivia to the other side of the massive bed—massive enough for four of us to be sleeping in it.

Liv and I share whenever we feel like it.

The bed, that is.

Not men.

A girl has to have some lines, and that’s one neither of us cross. Which means—I look down at my fully clothed self—that line is still intact.

Thank you, Lord.

My brain fights to remember why Olivia’s client and his brother have basically made us the insides of an extremely sexy sandwich.

“Why are you here, Rafe?” My voice comes out a hoarse whisper.

Water . . . I need water.

And an entire bottle of aspirin.

And maybe a cup of tea and honey.

“We’re in the penthouse suite,” Liv snaps as my stomach churns. “There’s three bedrooms and two couches. Why are there four of us in one bed?”

Great question.

What the hell happened last night?

Liv grabs her phone and silences us all as she walks out of the room with Logan hot on her heels, and I push away Rafe’s hand and try to sit up. Try being the operative word because it’s harder than I expected.

This is why I don’t drink. Ironic since, if I did drink, it probably wouldn’t affect me as much as it does right now. Damn, my head hurts. “What the hell did we do last night?”

Rafe sits up next to me, his bare chest flexing in the intense sunlight streaming through the windows. It’s a nice chest. Plenty of abs, a few tattoos, and a light dusting of hair. But it does absolutely nothing for me. It’s a shame, really. He’s a good-looking man. Shaggy brown hair, big brown eyes, muscles on muscles and abs for days. But does a single butterfly take flight in my stomach?

Nope.

Not a one.