The first thing I felt was the pounding in my head.
The second was the sun slicing across my bare thighs.
The third — and most terrifying — was the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor.
I jolted upright on the couch, the blanket slipping from my chest. Naked. Hungover. Mortified. My bra dangled off the side of the coffee table. My panties were nowhere in sight. And the bottle of wine I’d cracked open the night before? Empty, tipped over, soaking into the rug.
“Get up,” a voice said from the doorway. “Now.”
I froze.
There, standing like he owned the place — which, technically, he did — was Mr. Grayson. My boyfriend’s father.
Still in his travel jacket, suitcase at his feet, keys in one hand and disappointment etched across his face.
“I thought you were flying in tom
