The Cad and the Co-Ed
Page 2

Maybe Bryan had a magic penis. And how lucky was I? Finding a bloke with an enchanted penis for my first time. Maybe he had a purse around here someplace with endless money, or a goose that shit golden eggs. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did.
His handsome eyebrows did a little dance on his forehead as he struggled to lift his eyelids, finally managing to crack just one eye open and then immediately closing it. “Christ! It’s bright in here. Do me a favor, love, and close the curtains. I’ve got a splitting headache.”
I felt my smile falter, but said, “Uh, okay.”
I moved to stand, but then remembered my nakedness, so I hesitated. I’d been shy, which Bryan had told me was normal. He’d made me feel so beautiful that by the end of the night I hadn’t cared.
But now I was feeling self-conscious all over again.
“Hello? Are you still there?” he asked, covering his head with a pillow. “Are you closing the curtains, or what?”
“Sorry.” The word slipped out automatically due to habit, even though I wasn’t sorry. Not really. I just needed a minute to get my bearings. Rather than dither any longer, I decided to take the bed sheet with me and wrap it around myself.
I tugged the sheet, eliciting a short huff from Bryan, but he let it go. Disoriented and suddenly clumsy, it took me a moment to find the cord to pull the curtains closed.
“Done?”
“Um, yes.” I stared at the bed, uncertain what to do.
He sounded different this morning.
Or maybe I was being silly and insecure.
Either way, I wanted to snuggle next to him—of course—but decided I needed some sign from him first.
He lifted the pillow and peeked at me. Or maybe he peeked at the room to make sure I’d closed the curtains. Either way, he seemed relieved by what he saw and removed the pillow from his face. He folded it and placed it behind his head, the definition of his muscles caught by the hazy, shadowy light filtering in beneath the curtains.
“Hello,” he said, giving me a small smile, his eyes moving down my body.
“Hi.” I waved and then fiddled with the sheet where I clutched it to my chest, feeling puerile but unable to pinpoint precisely why.
“You have red hair.” His smile grew but his eyes narrowed.
I tucked my hair behind my ear reflexively, my heart fluttering happily because he’d said the same thing last night. He’d told me it was the color of lust and passion.
And then the happy flutters petered out, because telling me my hair was the color of lust and passion sounded really cheesy in the light of day. Really cheesy and really trite.
“Yes, it’s the same color as lust and passion,” I deadpanned, deciding that recycling his words as a joke would make us both feel better about how silly they sounded now.
He made a face, his nose wrinkling like I was strange or smelled bad. His reaction made the moment untenably awkward, heightening my insecurity tenfold. I wondered for a moment if he’d forgotten saying the words, then dismissed the thought. More likely I’d offended him by making the statement a joke.
I had the urge to apologize again.
“Anyway . . .” His stare lingered on me for a few seconds, and then he pressed the base of his palms into his eye sockets and sighed. “Bloody hell, my head is splitting.”
I frowned, worried. “Are you all right? Should I call a doctor?”
He chuckled, squinting at me briefly and then replacing his palms. “Nah. I’ll be right as rain soon as I have a drink, just to take the edge off. Don’t worry about me.”
My frown deepened. I was still standing dumbly at the side of the bed, endeavoring to make sense of his words.
He doesn’t mean alcohol, does he? He wasn’t drunk last night.
“I can grab some water and I have a Solpadeine in my purse,” I offered, taking a step toward the bathroom.
“I’ll take the Solpadeine, but look for the minibar. Vodka will do the trick.”
I gaped at him, unsure what to do or say, because unless he woke up in the middle of the night and drank a half bottle of liquor, there was no reason he should have been hung over this morning. He was completely sober last night. The entire time we were together he’d only had three—no, four—drinks. Four drinks over four hours was perfectly acceptable.
“Um, I don’t think you should m-mix alcohol and pain m-meds.”
“Who are you? My mam?” he spat, squinting at me again. “If you’re bent on nagging you can leave now.”
I gasped. “Bryan—”
“Quit saying my name. I know what my goddamn name is. What’s your name?”
I gasped again, stumbling back a step. “W-what?”
“You heard me, or are you daft too?” he growled, pressing his palms against his forehead. “Shite that hurts.”
“You d-d-don’t know m-m-my n-n-n-n—” I stuttered, then clamped my mouth shut, not wanting to embarrass myself further.
What is happening? How—
I stared at him, wondering maybe if he was joking. Was this a joke? Best-case scenario this was his idea of a joke. Otherwise . . .
Otherwise it was one of two things: either Bryan Leech, professional athlete, had a brain injury that caused short-term memory loss. Or Bryan Leech had no idea who I was because he’d been drunk last night—pissed—and I’d had no idea.
He exhaled loudly, sounding frustrated. And when he spoke it sounded like he was trying to be gentle, instead the words were patronizing and dismissive. “Listen, sorry for snapping. I just . . . my head is bleedin’ killing me. I’m sure you’re a lovely girl, and I assume you had a good time last night?”