Page 17 of Just My Type (The Boston Hearts #3)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

HANNAH

W hy did I forget to turn off the light?

It’s my only coherent thought as I claw my way out of sleep and crack open my eyes not to a forgotten overhead light, but to the actual sun streaming in through the window.

I immediately wish I hadn’t. I slam my eyes closed, gritting my teeth against a pounding head and a wave of nausea so acute my entire body tenses, ready to jump out of bed so I don’t throw up all over the sheets.

With a few deep breaths, the nausea subsides, but the hammering in my head doesn’t.

My mouth feels like I licked a bar floor and then stuffed it with cotton.

I whimper. My head pounds.

I breathe deeply. My stomach heaves.

This is how I go.

Just pitch my tombstone right here on this very comfortable bed.

Here lies Hannah Evans. Done in by…I’m not sure exactly what, it turns out.

My aching brain reaches for a memory. Any memory at all of last night that might tell me why I feel like I was hit by a truck seventeen times in a row. How I got from wherever I was back to…wherever I am.

Where am I, exactly?

I attempt to crack open an eye, sighing with relief when my stomach stays where it belongs for the moment.

Unwilling to risk moving my body, I slide my open eye around, cataloguing my surroundings.

White walls. Tan carpet. A single red heel lying on its side in the middle of the room next to a bright green gambling chip.

Gambling.

Vegas.

Not in Boston.

In Vegas for Jordan and Jo’s bachelor/bachelorette weekend.

I breathe a small sigh of relief that at least I know where I am and continue my one-eyed perusal of the room, looking for clues to tell me why I feel like I spent last night doing keg stands at a frat house.

Not that I ever actually did that.

I’ve just heard things.

Open suitcase on a luggage rack, something that looks like a piece of crumpled white paper. Jeans lying in a puddle on the floor. A pair of men’s sneakers.

Men’s sneakers, what the fuck .

Shooting up in bed, I immediately grab my head in both hands, squeezing as pain lances through my temples.

I slowly turn to the right, and my heart vaults directly into my throat when my eyes land on a man.

A mostly naked man sprawled on his stomach, face buried in a pillow, baring the most incredible back I’ve ever seen, lean muscles gleaming in the morning sun and tapering down to a trim, perfect waist and what looks like the world’s most perfect ass clad in tight black boxer briefs covered in cartoon teeth.

Hold the fucking phone.

I just really love teeth , he said.

My eyes travel back up to the tousled light brown hair I may or may not have once dreamed about running my fingers through and what I can see of a stubbled jaw I’ve thought about feeling between my legs in my most private none of anyone else’s business please and thank you thoughts.

Oh god.

Noah.

Holy fucking fuck, Noah Wyles is in my bed.

Noah Wyles is almost naked in my bed.

My stomach roils and I shoot up, flying to the bathroom and slamming the door.

I drop to my knees just in time for my stomach to empty its entire contents into the toilet bowl.

And then again. And again. For sure I’m getting vomit in my hair, but I’m too miserable to care.

I stay there, my knees aching from the cold tile floor, my stomach heaving even though there’s nothing left to throw up.

My nose runs and tears stream down my face, and I fold my arms on the toilet seat, laying my head down and praying for death to take me.

Reaching up, I fumble around until my hand closes over my toothbrush and toothpaste. I don’t even bother with water. I just squeeze toothpaste on the brush and stick it dry into my mouth.

And I promptly throw up again because it turns out there’s nothing worse than brushing your teeth with a dry toothbrush.

You know, except for hugging the toilet like a lover while the hottest man to walk the earth is mostly naked in your bed, and you have no clue why or how he got there. Or how I got here.

This is why I prefer to stay home. Because when you stay home, you don’t wake up hungover, minus a single memory of how you got that way and plus one extremely hot, entirely wrong for you, because every man is wrong for you, man you may or may not have had sex you can’t remember with in your bed.

I have the sudden thought that maybe Noah wasn’t really in my bed at all. Maybe it was a figment of my imagination. Except then the figment of my imagination knocks on the bathroom door.

So much for that theory .

“Han, can I come in?” Noah’s soft voice gives me a full body cringe and has stress hives crawling up my neck.

“No,” is all I can manage, my voice low and raspy.

“I have water for you. You need to hydrate, Gorgeous.”

“I have vomit in my hair. Just let me die in peace. I live here now.”

Noah chuckles and I hate him with the fire of a thousand suns for how cheerful he sounds. “I’ve seen it all. Doctor, remember? I’m coming in, Han. Let me help you.”

“Ugh, fine,” I mutter.

I crane my head up as the door clicks open and I’m about to hit him with a barrage of questions about what happened last night and how we got here, but fucking Christ, the front view is even better than the back.

Holy shoulders, and how is it possible a dentist has so many abs?

Didn’t the man do, like, six years of residency?

How did he have time to get abs like that?

And don’t even get me started on the V at his hips, the way his briefs stretch tight over his…

no. Nope. No way. No. Do not even look at his dick right now, Hannah. Be better than that.

“If you’re done checking me out, you should drink this.”

My eyes snap up to his smirking face. I scowl, grabbing the water and twisting around to sit on the floor and take the pressure off my aching knees. I drink it and shiver, the tile cold against my ass.

In a flash, Noah bends down and scoops me up, walking back into the bedroom and depositing me on the bed, pulling the covers up over me.

“Dude, what the fuck?” I mumble.

Noah shrugs and climbs in next to me. “You looked cold.”

I sigh, my head dropping forward and my hair falling into my face, suddenly exhausted down to my bones. “I was,” I mutter.

He bumps his shoulder with mine. “Thought so.”

“How are you so cheerful?” I ask moodily, shoving my hair back with an irritated grumble. “And what the fuck happened last night? Why are you in my bed? Did we have sex?” I demand .

Noah grins at me and reaches over, gathering my probably vomit covered hair in a ponytail. I’ve never worked as hard at anything as I do to suppress the shiver that runs through me at the feel of Noah’s hands raking through my hair.

“I’m always cheerful, Gorgeous. That’s just the way I roll. My memories of last night are…hazy at best, but we definitely didn’t have sex.”

I glance at him, my eyes drifting over his naked torso, down to his boxer briefs. “If you can’t remember anything, how can you be so sure?”

Now it’s his turn to rake his gaze over me as he finishes pulling my hair back.

“First of all, you’re still dressed. And second of all, if I had sex with the most beautiful girl in the world, there’s no way I would forget it.

” He gives me a look that can only be described as smoldering. “You wouldn’t forget it either.”

I’m trying mightily not to melt into a puddle at his most beautiful girl in the world comment as he reaches down with his left hand and tugs the hair tie off my wrist. That’s when I see it.

What the fuck?