MY SPLITTING HEADACHE is the first thing I register when I open my eyes. It's nowhere near as bad as the headache I had after my first time drinking bourbon—a headache so bad even blinking seemed to worsen it—but it’s bad enough that I groan and slap my hand over my eyes. The dull pain behind my eyes is so distracting that I don’t notice my bedroom door opening until it creaks.
My eyes fly open and I sit up. The panic doesn’t last long.
“Sinclair?”
He's leaning against my doorframe, watching me with an unfathomable expression.
“In the flesh.”
I stare at him uncomprehendingly and he stares back, that enigmatic expression not changing at all. It takes me a while of looking at him—mostly ogling how f*****g good he looks in boxer briefs and thinking about how between this hangover an
