Page 73 of Collide

Oh.Myapartment.

I groan, throwing an arm over my eyes, but the damage is already done. Sunlight streams through the half-drawn curtains, stabbing at my retinas without mercy.

My body aches—not from exertion, but from the telltale signs of too many drinks.

What time is it?

I squint at my phone, lifting it with sluggish fingers.

Nine thirty a.m.

“Fuck.” My voice is hoarse, raspy, like I slept with my mouth wide open all night.

Brunch is at ten thirty.

Which means I have exactly thirty minutes to go fromthisto something passably presentable, and be back at Philippa’s.

Panic jolts through me like a shot of espresso. The thought of coffee makes me ache. Ineedit bad.

I throw off the covers and instantly regret it. The room spins.

Too fast.

I suck in a breath. One foot on the floor. Then the other.Okay. I can do this.

Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror confirms my worst fear: I look like hell. Champagne, two bottles of tequila, and an entire pitcher of frozen margaritas swirl in my stomach like a warning.

Thanks, Riley.

Great. Just great.

My insides lurch. Focus.Don’t throw up. You don’t have time.

I stagger to the bathroom, twist the faucet, and splash cold water on my face. It helps—barely. Another glance in the mirror. My hair’s a wreck, last night’s mascara is smudged halfway down my cheek, and one camisole strap is clinging to my shoulder for dear life.

There’s no time to dwell. I need a miracle.

I take the fastest shower of my life—washed and dried in under five minutes—and march straight into the closet and start rifling through hangers like a woman on the brink.

My fingers land on a white T-shirt. I yank it on and pair it with my favorite jeans—the ones that hug just right and give me the illusion of longer legs.

Shoes: sneakers. No contest. Especially if we’re running wedding errands.

Accessories? No time to overthink it. Gold chain necklace. Stack it. A few rings. Tiny gold hoops. Just enough to fake effort.

I sling my crossbody bag over my shoulder and take a breath.

Hair:disaster. I spritz in some texturizing spray, rake my fingers through it, and let it fall into some kind of beachy chaos.

Good enough.

Tinted moisturizer. Bronzer. Mascara. A swipe of berry balm.

Done.

I check my phone. Nine fifty-five a.m.

Shit.