When Jessica came to, she was in a soft bed—her first clue something was wrong. The second was she was wearing large men’s pajamas. Third, and most disturbing, she had no idea where she was, but it looked like a museum with a bed in the middle. To top it off, her mouth tasted like she’d licked a bar floor after a rodeo. She groaned and leaned her head over the side of the bed.
“Good morning, Cinnamon Dolce,” a man’s voice said. “There’s a wastebasket next to the bed. Please use it.” She took his advice then rolled back into bed. “Where am I?” she asked. “What day is it?” She put her hands over her eyes to block the blinding light burning into her skull.
“You’re in my apartment, Dolce.” She peeked through her fingers and saw Nick Schilling sitting in a carved wooden chair across the room.
