another one.

Shana My incredible dream begins to fade as I wake to the embrace of strong arms and the strangely comforting aroma of day-old cologne—a mixture of spice and leather—combined with musk and cinnamon. Before I can fully process the possibility that my dream may not have been a dream, soft sheets kiss my skin as I'm pulled closer to a warm, hard body. “Good morning. How are you feeling?" Trevor asks in a deep whisper, his voice dragging me from a dense, sleep-induced fog as butterfly kisses pepper the top of my head. His tone is thick with the gravelly stirrings of waking. As I process his question and the reality that I'm in bed with a man I hardly remember, my eyes pop open to a dimly lit hotel suite. Pushing through the sensation of reality versus dreams, my pulse quickens as I slowly lift my chin, bringing my gaze upward from the bare chest before me, to a thick neck covered with a day's beard growth, and then all the way up to his green eyes, now open and filled with as much question as mine. “O-oh," I stutter. “Oh my!" I wiggle away from his comforting embrace as my mind fills with pieces of scenes from the night before. The memories are like a sliced-up film reel, the missing snippets now lying upon the cutting-room floor. With large gaps in my memory, I search for answers, for anything that will make sense of where I am, where we are, and how we got to this point. I'm in a hotel, in Indiana. We're in a hotel, in Indiana. We're both here because... The wedding. The reality hits me with enough force to rock my already topsy-turvy world. My best friend is getting married, and I'm her maid of honor. She's getting married today. Oh my! “Oh no. What time is it?" My voice cracks with the desperation currently coursing through my bloodstream as I search the room, my eyes adjusting to the sliver of faint light seeping from around the thick curtains. “This isn't..." It isn't my room. It's similar, but I recall hanging my maid-of-honor dress from the curtain rod after my flight and leaving my shoes on the chair. Since neither is here, I have the undeniable feeling I'm not in my suite, but in Trevor's. “Hey," he soothes as he reaches for my hand. “Slow down. It's still early. No wedding obligations for a few hours." “Okay." And yet my head moves contrarily to my agreement, shaking vigorously back and forth as I try to formulate my thoughts and find the correct words capable of leaving my dry lips. “No, this..." I motion between the two of us. “...what is this?" I sit up. “No matter what it is, we can't tell them. Not today. Not on their wedding day. Oh..." My temples seize up—from memories or possibly from alcohol, I'm not sure. Closing my eyes to the pain, I collapse, lying back onto the soft pillow. “Oh, what will they say?" “Well, they might be happy for us. After all, they're happy. Why shouldn't we be?" Happy? Happy that the bride's best friend and the groom's brother had a one-night stand the night before their wedding? Is that what happened? Damn wine. No, it was more than that. I lick my lips, the lingering taste of cinnamon a stark clue to what my mind forgot. No, not just wine. Fireball. Oh dear Lord. I'm not a drinker. Why did I do it? And more importantly, what did I do? My head continues to shake. “No. They don't even know we met." “Oh, Shana..." He lifts my hand, his grasp sure and warm as his fingers surround mine. “I'm very glad to meet you." “That's not... no," I say, more as a prayer than a testament to our meeting as I pull my hand away. Immediately, I miss the connection I hardly know and yet suddenly crave. With my eyes still closed, I sense the shift of the bed, the way Trevor's weight settles closer to my side, his long fingers as they gently tease my messy hair away from my face. His soft yet sure lips as they once again kiss my forehead and hair. Afraid to open my eyes—to see him or to remember—I swallow before asking the million-dollar question, “Oh goodness, Trevor, please tell me, what did we do?" His laugh rumbles like thunder, rolling through the morning twilight. “That, my lady, could wound a man of less self-confidence. What do you remember?" Slowly, I open my eyes and take in Trevor Willis. He's nothing like I imagined him to be from my best friend's description. The younger brother of her fiancé was rumored to be quiet and shy, an engineer who constructs roads and bridges. More of a thinker, she said, not as much of a people person, nothing like his gregarious entrepreneurial brother. In my fevered memories, as I inhale his masculine scent, feel the warmth of his skin, and absorb the adoration of his gaze, nothing could be further from the truth. He's every bit as sexy. No, he's more. Much more. And there's a quiet reserve about him that I find reassuring. My gaze wanders downward. The sheets from the bed where we slept are bunched near his waist, covering his legs and revealing his defined torso, broad shoulders, and still higher, the most mesmerizing shining green stare. His dirty blond hair is tousled in a sensual morning way, making my fingers itch to comb through his locks. His cheeks are high as his smile broadens. His strong chiseled jaw is covered in a day's overgrowth of blond. If I didn't remember his name and our meeting—or at least the beginning of it—I wouldn't know he's my best friend's future brother-in-law. If that were the case, I wouldn't realize that on the morning of my best friend's wedding, I'm waking in the bed of a man I met merely hours ago, with a terrible headache and more questions than answers. Tentatively, I sigh and scoot up the large king-sized bed toward the headboard. As I do, I notice the clothes I'm wearing. They are clothes, but not completely mine. In place of a nightgown, I'm wearing a large button-down man's shirt and yes, my own panties. At least I'm not nude. The problem is that I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing. I need the entire film. It wasn't the director who cut out important scenes, leaving them lying upon the editing-room floor, but Fireball. Trevor's cinnamon scent. Some of the memories are coming back. The problem is that they lack chronological order, creating a puzzle without shape. I can't see the whole picture. “Trevor?" I ask, suddenly unsure if I can handle the truth. “Do you think we could get some coffee?" His grin grows. “I already called. Room service is on its way." “I'm a big hot chocolate fan, but right now, I think coffee sounds best." “Anything else, my lady?" I sigh again, dropping my gaze to my hands that are neatly folded on my lap. Looking back up through my lashes, I confess, “At the risk of injuring your self-confidence, can you tell me about last night?" “Are you asking for a story?" “I'm asking for the truth."