Page 9 of Faking the Pass

Is This Hell?

R osie

At first I thought it was another nightmare.

My sleep had been plagued by them thanks to one of the worst days of my life being closely followed by a full bottle of wine and way too many pre-packaged snack cakes.

But then I came to full alertness and realized that no, there actually was an enormous man staring down at me.

And holding a bat.

Heart rocketing around my chest and hands shaking with adrenaline, I flung the covers back and scrambled to the other side of the bed, sliding off it and attempting to flee for my life from my would-be murderer.

Unfortunately, my left foot was still caught up in the blanket.

When I tried to run toward the attached bathroom, it tripped me.

As I fell forward, my forehead hit the door frame with a loud thwak , and I ricocheted back, landing hard on my butt.

There was movement in my peripheral vision as the intruder ran around the end of the bed, reaching me before I even had time to react.

This was it. Not only was I going to die on my un-wedding night, I would look grotesque in my casket with a purple, misshapen forehead and chocolate in my teeth.

“Rosie.”

The deep male voice repeated my name, causing me to look up.

“Rosie, it’s me. Presley Lowe. It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.”

He knelt beside me, removing my palm from my forehead. “Are you okay? Let me see it.”

Was I already dead?

Maybe that blow to the head had been harder than I realized.

But no, angels probably didn’t welcome you to the pearly gates with a baseball bat in hand—at least I hoped not.

“Presley?” I blinked at him several times. “Are you real? Or wait… is this… Hell?”

Of all people to see me at what was perhaps the lowest moment of my entire life, did it really have to be Presley Lowe?

The guy I’d swooned over pretty much every day of high school, who’d finally noticed me in our senior year and had given me the most blissful three weeks of my young life.

The same guy who’d casually ended it and then crushed my soul by referring to me as a “flaky theater freak” in front of all his cool jock friends.

And now I’d gone and proved every word of that label.

Again.

He chuckled. “I’m real, but thanks for the flattering assumption. How’s your head? Any double vision or nausea?”

My hand went back to my face, probing my forehead, which hurt like hell, even though I was apparently not in the underworld.

What was he even doing here?

“Um… no. There’s only one of you,” I said.

I studied Presley’s handsome face, fighting a combination of hangover brain fog and sleep inertia—with a little head trauma thrown in for good measure.

“Why are you here?” I asked. “Did Wilder send you with my luggage?”

His head jerked back, and his mouth quirked in a perplexed expression.

“What? No, I’m here because this is my house, my bedroom. Why are you here?”

The fog cleared entirely as I realized what had happened.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I sputtered. “When Wilder said the house was unoccupied right now and that it was a family property, I thought it was like a vacation place or something. He didn’t tell me you lived here.”

Presley nodded, his own expression clearing. “Wilder let you in.”

“I had surgery a few days ago, and I’ve been staying at my parents’ house,” he explained. “Wilder probably didn’t tell you it was my place because he didn’t want you to worry about anything, and knowing him, he had a good reason for sending you here. Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Not… particularly.”

I didn’t want to be in his presence—and look at that ridiculously gorgeous face, which had somehow gotten even more attractive over the years—a minute longer than necessary.

Getting to my feet, I staggered for a moment, trying to get my balance, before I began searching the floor for my belongings.

Presley reached out to steady me, placing a big hand on my shoulder. The warmth of it raised goosebumps all over my body.

“Go slow,” he advised. “You hit your head pretty hard there. In fact, you should probably sit down.”

Mortification heated my skin to scalding when I looked down at his hand on my bare arm and realized all I had on was the fancy bra and panties set I’d worn under my discarded wedding gown.

No wonder Presley was watching me so closely.

Grabbing my dress from where it lay in a heap on the floor, I stepped into it and struggled to pull it on.

And I babbled an excuse.

“I’m so sorry. I never would have come here if I’d known it was your house.

Wilder said it would be empty for the next week or so, and I needed a place to stay for a day or two where the paparazzi wouldn’t find me, and I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

I was planning to clean it all up before I went, and oh—”

I cringed as a tidal wave of embarrassment crashed over me. “Sorry about the cupcakes. And the wine. I hope that wasn’t some rare vintage or something. I’ll replace it. I’ll ship a case of it here when I get back to California.”

Not only had I invaded his home and his bed and flashed him my bridal lingerie, I’d stolen his food and alcohol.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Presley’s tone was slightly bemused as he looked at me from under his lowered brows.

I held the back of the dress together with one hand and stretched the other arm behind me, grappling for the zipper.

“Do you need a hand with that, or…”

“No. God no,” I blurted.

I renewed my efforts to redress myself in the ridiculously complicated gown.

It had taken a team of people to wrangle me into it this morning, so I wasn’t sure why I would think I could miraculously assemble it on my own now.

While hungover. With a head injury.

After another few seconds of watching my futile attempts, Presley crossed the room to a dresser, opened it, and withdrew a folded white t-shirt.

He walked back over to me and offered it. “Another option… if you want it.”

I dropped the heavy dress and heaved a sigh. “Thank you.”

Then I took the t-shirt and pulled it over my head. It was huge, Presley-sized, falling nearly to my knees.

At least I was decent now.

His gaze flicked over me in a speedy assessment.

“Reminds me of when you wore my jersey to school on game day. Remember that?”

From his frown, it wasn’t a happy memory for him.

“No,” I lied. “I’ll be out of your way in a few minutes. Just let me call an Uber.”

Dropping my head back onto my shoulders, I blew out a frustrated breath.

“I don’t have my phone. I left it back at Bellevue Manor. Do you mind if I borrow yours?”

“I wouldn’t mind a bit,” Presley said, “if it wasn’t dead. My nephew was conducting a physics experiment today, two-year-old style.”

Rubbing his chin, he said, “I could drive over to Bellevue Manor and get yours for you. But they’re gonna be closed up for the night. It’s late. Also, I’m on some pretty heavy pain meds, so I probably shouldn’t drive.”

He looked me over. “You’re in no shape to drive tonight either. Besides the knock on your head, you’ve been a little overserved. Or self -served, I should say. I wouldn’t think someone your size would even be able to hold that much wine.”

I wanted to roll under the bed and hide—or better yet sink through the floor into the bedrock supporting the house.

“Well, it’s not my usual serving size. I had a… very bad day.”

Presley’s brow creased again. “What happened? Was it the world’s shortest marriage? Like one of those horror stories you read on Reddit where it ends basically during the reception?”

Ugh. I’d been hoping by some miracle the world’s hottest ex-boyfriend would never know about my life’s most humiliating moment. No such luck.

“Did he smash the cake in your face or fuck a bridesmaid or something?” Presley asked.

I couldn’t help but laugh, which was remarkable considering the day I’d had. Maybe it was one of those if you don’t laugh you’ll cry situations.

“She wasn’t actually a bridesmaid,” I said. “And I didn’t actually get married.”

“Did he ditch you at the altar?” Presley’s voice had lost all humor and now sounded angry.

Not sure what he had to be angry about, but I certainly was.

Though I’d really have preferred not to talk about it, I felt like I owed him something in exchange for the t-shirt and the wine bottle I’d drained—not to mention a whole box of delicious cupcakes and several hours of slumber in the most comfortable bed I’d ever slept in.

“Actually I ditched him —after meeting his girlfriend… who appeared to be days away from giving birth to their child.”

Presley’s eyes widened. “You didn’t know about her?”

“Of course not,” I said. “You really think I’d choose to marry a man with a pregnant girlfriend? I didn’t have a clue. Which makes me literally clueless, I guess.”

My face dropped into my hands. “I feel like an idiot. In fact, I’m pretty sure I am one.”

Yep. The flaky theater freak label was feeling awfully accurate right about now.

The act of covering my eyes seemed to throw me off balance again. Swaying then stumbling to the side, I caught myself on the bed. This was just getting worse and worse.

“And I’m drunk,” I confessed. “I’m a drunk, idiotic, jilted bride… whose career is over.”

I let out a desperate sounding laugh. “I’m also rude. I didn’t even ask about your arm. Are you in a lot of pain still?”

His right arm—his throwing arm—was in a sling, and I vaguely remembered Wilder mentioning it had been injured in last week’s Nauticals game.

“I’m fine.”

Presley waved off the question with his good hand, as if his injury was of no consequence.

“You’re not idiotic. And your career is not over,” he said a bit harshly. “If anyone should be embarrassed here, it’s Randy. Once people find out what he’s done, his career will probably be over.”

“ If they find out—which is doubtful,” I said.

A claustrophobic feeling began climbing up my throat, just thinking about it. Randy was the one with all the power here.

He was in control of the narrative.

“I’m sure he’s not telling anyone what really happened,” I said. “They’d probably forgive him anyway, even if he did. He’s Hollywood’s golden boy. He’s an Oscar winner and a major box office draw. I’m no one.”

Presley just stood there, glowering at me. The hand I could see clenched into a fist like he wanted to hit something.

Probably me, though he’d never been rough with me or any other girl that I knew of.

Poor guy was recovering from surgery and just wanted to go to bed, and he’d stumbled into the messy nuclear meltdown of my personal and professional life.

I was nearly as mortified as I’d been on that day back in high school when I’d walked around the corner locker just as he’d been ridiculing me to his buddies while they all laughed.

Nearly as mortified.

That incident took the cake and the whole bakery along with it.

For a long moment, we just looked at each other.

Then Presley, still frowning, said, “You’re not gonna be able to find a room tonight. The hotels in Eastport Bay are always booked up at this time of year, even without a celebrity wedding in town. Even if you could manage to get to one safely, I doubt they’d have an open room.”

There was a long pause. “Just stay here tonight.”

“No. Absolutely not,” I protested. “I couldn’t impose like that. I’ve already—”

“Think about it, Rosie. What are your other choices?”

Presley cut me off, looking and sounding exactly as grouchy as one might expect of a guy whose home and surgical recovery had been violated by a high school acquaintance he probably barely remembered.

“It’s either you take my car and drive drunk—not my favorite option,” he said. “I drive you under the influence of pain medication—not tempting either. Or you go out to the street in that t-shirt and that bejeweled thong and those ice princess heels and hitchhike.”

Gesturing behind me to the bed, he said, “Or… you could stay here in my nice, safe house and crawl back into that nice, warm bed and go back to sleep. You can leave in the morning.”

I glanced back at the exceptionally cozy bed.

My head ached. My feet definitely didn’t want to get back into those shoes.

All the energy drained from my limbs, and I sagged in defeat.

“Thank you, Presley. I can’t take your bed from you, though.”

He held up a hand, brooking no argument. “It’s not a big deal. I have a couple of extra rooms. I’ll just sleep in one of them tonight.”

He reached out as if he might be about to place his big hand on my shoulder then dropped it to his side again.

“Do you need a toothbrush or anything?”

Cringing, I looked up into his spectacular light hazel eyes. “I’m a drunk, rude, jilted bride with no career, and I also have bad breath?”

One corner of Presley’s mouth lifted. “Your breath is as fresh as daisies in the springtime.”

“Liar.”

“I’m just saying… if you do need a toothbrush at any point tonight or in the morning, there are a few new ones in the top right drawer in there.”

He nodded toward the connected bathroom. “Toothpaste, too. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

I sighed. “Just the restoration of my dignity and a complete do-over of the past six months of my life. And maybe some ibuprofen.”

“The ibuprofen, I can do,” he said with a light chuckle. “I’ll be right back with that and a bottle of water.”