In the following morning.
The alarm blared in my ear like a demon screeching from hell.
I groaned, slamming a fist against the clock until it stopped. My head pulsed painfully, like my brain was trying to claw out of my skull.
I sat up slowly, blinking at the sunlight flooding the room.
What the hell happened last night? I thought, squinting. My body ached in all the wrong ways—and some very right ones.
There were pieces—snapshots—in my brain: Delilah’s laugh, her lips, her body beneath mine. I rubbed my temples.
Then I heard it.
The faint sound of someone chopping something in the kitchen.
I dragged myself up, still shirtless, still feeling half-dead, and staggered toward the sound.
And there she was.
Delilah, standing barefoot in my kitchen, wearing one of my shirts—way too big
