The Morning After
The first thing Alison felt was the softness.
Not her own worn-out sheets that had been washed so often they were thin and rough. This was different—smooth, expensive. Egyptian cotton maybe. Or silk. The kind of fabric rich people slept on.
Her eyes flew open.
Wrong ceiling. Wrong light. Wrong everything.
The room slowly came into focus, fighting against the pounding in her head. Huge windows showed a high view of Chicago she’d only ever seen from the street. Morning sunlight poured through spotless glass. The bedroom was bigger than her whole apartment, decorated in calm shades of grey and cream. A single abstract painting hung on the wall—definitely worth more than her yearly salary.
Cold panic shot through her.
She sat up too fast and her skull throbbed in protest. The silk duvet—because of course it was silk—fell around her waist. She looked down.
She was wearing a man’s white dress shirt. Only that.
“No, no, no, no,” she whispered, pressing her palms to her eyes. Flashes of last night flickered in her mind like broken film. The club. Strobe lights. Maya pushing a drink at her. Deafening music. And then—
A man. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Eyes that saw right through her.
Oh God.
Her dress? Her shoes? Her phone?
Her clothes were folded neatly on a leather chair—somehow even more embarrassing than if they’d been tossed everywhere. Her clutch sat on the nightstand.
At least he was… tidy. Whoever he was.
She grabbed her phone and squinted at the screen. 9:47 a.m. Fifteen missed calls. Dozens of texts from Maya.
GIRL WHERE ARE YOU
Ali answer your phone
I lost you at the bar
TEXT ME BACK OR IM CALLING THE POLICE
CALL ME RIGHT NOW
Before she could freak out more, she heard movement outside the bedroom. Dishes clinking. Someone was here.
Someone was in the apartment, and she was in his bed wearing his shirt.
Her heart hammered as she tried to drag up any memory from last night. She remembered laughing—loudly, too loudly. She never laughed like that. She remembered strong hands on her waist, a low voice against her ear, the way her whole body had felt warm and reckless.
She remembered feeling free.
She wanted to hide under the duvet and evaporate.
She needed to get out. Now.
“You’re awake.”
The voice came from the doorway. Alison jerked her head up.
The man leaning there was… beautiful. Stupidly so. And she hated herself for noticing.
Tall—she remembered that. Dark hair, perfectly messy. Strong jaw. A face that looked like it belonged on a billboard. But his eyes were what made her breath catch—dark, steady, unreadable.
He was also shirtless.
And sculpted in a way that seemed unfair. Broad shoulders, a defined chest, a sharp V disappearing into low black pants. She stared—just for a second—before dragging her eyes back up.
His mouth twitched. He’d noticed.
“I—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed. “I should go.”
“You should eat,” he said calmly, stepping into the room with easy confidence. “And take something for that headache. You look pale.”
“I’m fine.” She was not fine. She was mortified, half-dressed, and dealing with a man who looked like a sin in human form.
“You’re hungover,” he said simply. “I made breakfast. And I have a great hangover remedy.”
“I really need to—”
“Alison.”
Her name in his mouth made her freeze. Steady. Familiar. Like he’d said it before.
“How do you know my name?” she asked sharply.
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “You told me. Last night. Along with other… interesting things.”
Heat crawled up her neck. “I don’t remember—”
“I know.” His tone softened. “Which is why you should eat first. Then decide what you want to do. You’re in no shape to run around the city.”
“I can handle myself—”
“You don’t even know where you are.”
She opened her mouth but nothing came out. He was right. She was completely lost.
His expression shifted, like he’d won a silent argument.
“Ten minutes,” he said. “Eat, take the remedy, and I’ll call you a car. Deal?”
Every instinct begged her to bolt. But her head throbbed, her mouth tasted awful, and she was definitely not walking through Chicago in last night’s club dress.
“Fine,” she muttered. “Ten minutes.”
He smiled for real this time—and wow. That smile should come with a warning label.
“Good girl.”
A shiver ran through her before she could stop it.
He left the doorway, and she finally pulled herself out of bed. Her legs wobbled. She caught sight of herself in a tall mirror—messy hair, smudged makeup, oversized shirt.
She looked exactly like a woman doing the walk of shame at ten a.m.
Perfect.
She took a shaky breath and followed the smell of coffee.
When she stepped into the kitchen, she froze again.
Marble counters. Stainless steel. Huge windows. Everything expensive.
And him—moving calmly at the stove like this was a normal Sunday morning. He looked even better in the bright daylight, which frankly felt rude.
His eyes swept over her slowly when she entered, heating her skin.
“Coffee?” he asked casually.
“Yes. Please.” She hugged her arms around herself.
He poured her a cup from an espresso machine that looked pricier than her rent. Their fingers brushed when he handed it to her. A spark shot up her arm.
“Damian,” he said. “In case you don’t remember my name either.”
Damian. Of course that was his name.
“Thanks,” she said. “For… not being a serial killer.”
He laughed, warm and low. “Your standards are impressively low this morning.”
“It's been a morning,” she muttered, sipping the perfect coffee.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, turning back to the stove, “you were very sure last night that you could take care of yourself.”
Her stomach clenched. “What else was I sure about?”
“Eat first.” He put a plate in front of her—gourmet omelet, golden toast—and set down a glass of something green.
“What is that?”
“Hangover remedy. It tastes terrible. It works.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Neither is puking in a taxi,” he said dryly.
Honestly? Fair.
She lifted the glass and swallowed it fast. It tasted like lawn clippings and bad decisions. She shuddered.
Damian watched her with an unreadable expression.
“What?” she demanded.
“Nothing.” His mouth curved. “You just look a lot like you did last night.”
“I was drunk.”
“You were honest,” he corrected quietly. “There’s a difference.”
She focused on eating, because she had no idea how to respond to that. Annoyingly, the omelet was delicious.
After a moment, she put her fork down. “So… are you going to tell me what happened? Or should I play detective?”
Damian leaned against the counter, studying her.
“What do you remember?”
“Not enough.” She lifted her chin. “What did I tell you?”
His smile was slow, knowing, and entirely too confident.
“That,” he said softly, “is going to take more than ten minutes.”
