4. Steps to sneaking out of a one-night stand

FOUR

#7 put your shoes on AFTER u leeve the apt

Itried to show my sisters. I really did. I marched right out of that house, hopped on the train back to Manhattan, skipped into Opal, and charmingly demanded at least five shifts a week and an advance on my next paycheck.

Tom just laughed and went back to pouring a beer. He did, however, offer me free drinks while I soothed my wounded ego and tried to come up with another plan.

Free drinking led to flirting with the crowd that flocked to Opal on Saturday nights to leer at the go-go dancers (who used to include me) and make out with anything that moved.

Flirting led to kissing a man with a silver earring and shaggy blond hair.

Kissing led to…well, I couldn't really say exactly what. Waking up in a stranger's bed with a raging hangover and a ray of sunlight piercing through the blinds like a needle straight to the eyeball, I guess.

Ouch.

Well, I had solved my housing problem. At least for one night.

And that had all led to this moment of muttering "Fuck," then wincing in the light. My voice sounded like it had been chopped up with razors. How many drinks had I had last night?

Still remaining horizontal, I took in my surroundings and patched together exactly where I was and how I'd gotten here.

Last call.

Way too much tongue.

A stranger who complimented my favorite thrifted miniskirt.

And he was…the lump now snoring next to me, whose name was…

"Dammit," I whispered. I honestly could not remember.

And I thought last night had been rock bottom.

Beside me, the lump shifted and emitted a sound like an elephant's chuff. Then he rolled onto his back, and I was met with an utterly normal face with a half-grown beard, a soft chest that needed a few months at the beach, and…well, not the biggest boner in the world underneath his blanket. Probably not even a medium-sized boner. It wasn't exactly a family-size camper, but enough to pitch a tent. Or a beach pop-up.

Yeah, it had come across that way last night too. I rubbed my face as a few more memories came back. Some sloppy kisses around my neck and heavy petting on the living room couch. Stumbling into his bedroom, where he made a few sad attempts to treat my clit like a light switch. Heavy breathing and a couple of weak thrusts against my thigh before the guy had totally lost his hard-on. And then Darren had passed out?—

Darren! That was his name!

Or…wait… Was it Aaron?

Baron?

No, that couldn't be right.

Dammit.

I waited to see if the lump-that-probably-rhymed-with-Karen would move again. "Snuggles" weren't exactly on the menu this morning—not with my raging headache and his morning breath from Mordor.

When the lump didn't move for a solid sixty seconds, I began the slow dance of extricating myself from a man's bed and locating my clothes without waking him. Careful not to disturb the sleeping walrus, I tiptoed around the room and managed to locate my jeans, my black sweater, my underwear, and one sock. My bra had gone missing, but since the mystery man over there had rolled over twice since I'd gotten up, he was getting a souvenir.

Bummer. I liked that bra a lot. It was green and matched my eyes.

I dressed in the hallway of what was plainly a very nice apartment. A classic six, by the looks of the second bedroom, the formal dining room, and the living room I stumbled past. The eat-in kitchen was massive by Manhattan standards. Apartments this big were all over the Bronx, but in Manhattan cost a mint.

Looks like What's-His-Name did all right for himself. Enough that I'd probably want to see him again if I were that kind of girl.

But I wasn't. Not yet, anyway.

I slid on my Vans, located my leather jacket on the thick gray couch in the living room, and then, for no reason at all, paused at the front door to take a last look.

It really was a nice place. Sleek wood floors that were made for pirouettes. Comfortable-looking furniture that was luxe without being too flashy. Warm white walls decorated with black and white photographs that were a bit more interesting than the average crap at Target.

It was the kind of apartment that, under normal circumstances, I might want to hang out in for a while. Kick back. Have a cocktail. Just get comfortable.

But no. It was back to Belmont for me, where I'd accept the key to the garage with my head hanging low and say goodbye to my childhood home once and for all.

"Bye," I whispered to the apartment as I quietly opened the door. "I'd say ‘see you later,' but we both know that's never gonna happen."

Kate: Joni, are you okay?

Lea: Where are you? Are you alive?

Frankie: Please come home. We are worried about you.

I stepped out of the elevator while staring at three of the dozen or so messages my sisters had sent last night and through the morning to the group chat called Hellcats after I'd stormed out of the house.

It was nearly one in the afternoon, which meant I'd been AWOL for almost fifteen hours and had skipped Sunday Mass too. After which we were all supposed to be finishing up with the final clean-out of the house and taking Nonna to the airport.

Somehow, the idea felt worse than my hangover.

Sunday afternoons weren't for mopping floors and staring at empty rooms. They were for drinks on the porch, and Nonna's osso buco, and chatting with whatever neighbors, cousins, aunties, or uncles who wanted to stop in from the neighborhood.

All things that would never happen again.

I paused in the lobby to let them know I wasn't dead.

Got stuck downtown. Stayed the night. Be there in about an hour.

Their replies were instantaneous.

Lea: Are you KIDDING me? We need you here NOW! WTF have you even been doing??

Kate: Do we really want the answer to that question?

Lea: Gross. No.

Frankie: Xavier and Mike are unloading everything at the storage unit now. Nonna took all the kids so we could clean for her. Please come ASAP.

Kate: We have your stuff to take to the shop.

Frankie: I grabbed a change of clothes for you.

Lea: And soap to disinfect your cooch.

"Oh my God, disinfect your own freaking cooch," I said a little too loudly, ignoring the suspicious-looking doorman and pausing in front of the exit to message them back that I really was on my way.

"Excuse me, miss—Joni?"

I jumped at the sound of a familiar voice. A deliciously deep, velvety smooth, come-hither voice a girl dreams about saying all manner of dirty things to her in the dark.

Please, God, no. Not this man. Not now. Not when I look like a squirrel who just got run over by a semi.

Unfortunately, my bad luck just seemed to keep flowing like the freaking Hudson River.

I swallowed and found myself looking up at a pair of glasses-framed eyes the color of the darkest espresso I would have sold my soul to sip on right now.

Right before I disappeared out of pure mortification.

First, the doctor's office.

And now, the walk of shame.

Apparently, the universe really wanted to teach me some humility when it came to Dr. Nathan Hunt.

Fuck my life. For real.

"You have got to be kidding me," I muttered.

It wouldn't have been so bad if he didn't look so…smart. So capable. And so very sexy in that way only men who don't know it can be.

Even now, wearing probably the most boring outfit possible, Hunt looked more edible than any so-called "bad boy" I'd ever met—and Belmont was full with them. Who needed tattoos, Jordans, and a cigarette addiction when you could have sleek jeans, a blue button-up, and a North Face jacket?

I stole a quick glance at the floor-to-ceiling mirrors lining the lobby. Okay, I didn't look quite the horror show I imagined. Braless and rumpled, sure, but my clothes—a pair of painted-on black jeans, a red T-shirt, black sweater, and my thrifted leather jacket—held up all right. I still had shadows of mascara smeared under my eyes, and my dark hair was tied up into a knot of glorious bedhead, but maybe I was pulling off a "devil-may-care" attitude. The beaded fringe earrings that almost touched my collarbone finished off the look.

Then I exhaled with morning breath that would probably put out the sun. Or set it on fire.

Jesus.

I snuck a stick of gum from my purse, then flipped back around with the bright smile that every man on the planet besides this one responded to. "Dr. Hunt—oh. Hello. Um, how are you?"

Hunt frowned, his gaze still taking in my presence from top to bottom like I was an elephant in a tutu. It was an understandable reaction, considering yesterday I'd basically told him where to shove it.

"I'm fine," he said slowly. "What are you doing here?"

Was it that obvious I didn't belong in this plush lobby?

Yes, I decided. Yes, it was. Well, I'd go with it.

"It's not what it looks like."

He didn't respond.

"Okay, it is," I admitted with what I hoped was a mischievous wink. "Um, I'm walking home after a very long night. What are you up to? Getting into some trouble?"

Another slow blink. Another joke that fell completely flat. That seemed to be my specialty with this dude.

"I go to the gym in the mornings, and I just had brunch with some colleagues," Nathan replied as his gaze dragged down my body with an unexpected heat and landed on my shoes.

"Oh, was it good?" I asked.

"The gym or the brunch?"

I shrugged. "Both, I suppose." It was like the guy had never heard of small talk.

Hunt sighed with a heaviness that didn't seem completely appropriate for Sunday brunch. "Both were adequate, I suppose. I don't particularly care for the eggs at Bergdorf's—do you wear those shoes a lot? They have terrible sole support."

Huh. The good doctor changed subjects even faster than I did.

I glanced down at my checkerboard Vans slip-ons. Maybe not the most glamorous things, and a far cry from Hunt's brightly colored Hokas. My brother had the same pair. They were called Speed Goats, and my sisters and I made barnyard sounds every time he went for a jog.

They were also expensive, which is probably why this asshole, yet again, thought it was appropriate to judge my life choices.

"What do you think would suit my next walk of shame?" I snarked. "Merrells? Maybe some hiking boots?"

Hunt just shook his head, unperturbed by my sarcasm. "I don't think hiking boots would be necessary in the city. Maybe Danskos. A lot of nurses wear them. It's really important to have proper arch support if you're on your feet for hours at a time. Otherwise, you might end up with plantar fasciitis, Achilles tendinitis, not to mention flat feet, which can later lead to?—"

"You know what, thanks," I interrupted. "I'll take a look."

If I hadn't already known he thought I was an idiot, this right here would have told me. Poor, stupid, wannabe stripper girl embarrasses a full-on doctor out of his mind, so he needs to point out that she dresses like a hobo too.

Except he said you were perfect, a little voice reminded me.

Perfect. Had he really said that in his office, or had I just imagined it?

Maybe he was going to say something about it now. Maybe he was going to mention his outburst, the fact that he had actually turned down a whole lot of money, because apparently, I was too perfect to touch.

I waited, watching, trying to find any clue in that stoic face of the turmoil I was currently feeling.

But there was nothing.

Nada.

Like it hadn't even happened.

My phone buzzed again—no doubt with more sisterly texts wondering if I was at the subway yet. I ignored them, only then noticing I'd missed a button on my shirt.

God, I was a disaster.

"So, I guess you live here?" I asked. Brilliant question, I know. But give me a break. My brain was still foggy from all the Jaeger. Or was it Southern Comfort? I believe my exact order to Tom was, "Give me something to make this day disappear."

I should have run right then. I needed a shower more than life; my head felt like a hammer was slamming into it, and my family was waiting to scold me out of existence. But instead, I lingered, waiting for the brown-eyed doctor to respond.

Because somehow, I just had to. I was starting to suspect I was a masochist.

Hunt frowned, making a brown curl flop adorably over his forehead. "Yes, I—you didn't actually say why you are in my building. Your chart said you live in the Bronx, so why would you be here?"

The question came out stunted, like he'd only just remembered to say it. Or maybe he was finally demonstrating some appropriate embarrassment. Honestly, it was cute. Annoyingly so.

But also irritating because was he really going to make me spell out the fact that I was slutting around New York just so he could offer yet another bit of choice judgment?

"Well," I said, unsure of why my hands were suddenly fumbling under that direct gaze of his. It made me babble all over again. "I, ah, sort of went home with someone last night. You're catching me on my way out before he wakes up."

The words jumped out before I could stop them, the way they often did when I was nervous. I hated that this guy made me so nervous.

But there was no reaction. None. Those chocolatey eyes just blinked as they waited for me to continue.

"He was a nobody, really," I went on, unable to stop now that I'd started. "Just some guy at the bar, and I didn't really want to go home after my shift. My family has been kind of annoying lately. You know how that goes."

More blinks. I guess he didn't. Dr. Nathan Hunt probably only took home a carefully curated selection of supermodels and socialites who lined up in his office to get their faces tweaked and asses lifted.

I continued babbling and fumbling with my shirt. "My sisters are actually expecting me now, but yeah. Um. His name was—ugh, will you judge if I say I can't remember? He had a really nice gray couch, that's all I know. Soft-looking, kind of velvet, with all the buttons that make it look super classy. Alden? Aaron? I swear his name started with an A…"

"Aiden?"

My mouth dropped. "Yes, that's it! How did you know?"

For the first time, Hunt's face was curiously expressive. I couldn't exactly read it, but the emotions were definitely there. A bit of a frown, his brows furrowed together like he was trying too hard to focus on something, and those big brown eyes pinned squarely on me, full of something…deep.

I shivered.

His throat rippled as he swallowed. "The gray couch. I recognize the description. It's a one-of-a-kind."

Great. Not only did Dr. Chocolate Eyes know I was the type for a no-name one-night stand, but he was apparently friends with the bearded lump under the sheets. I could just imagine him and Aiden grabbing beers and swapping stories about me.

Time to make my escape.

"Well, anyway," I said. "I gotta go. My sisters are waiting for me in Belmont."

As if on cue, my phone buzzed again. This time, I pulled it out.

Frankie: What's your ETA? Are you at least on the train from wherever you are?

Lea: I'm leaving the bathroom for you. You are not getting out of helping!

I rolled my eyes. Harpies, all of them.

"Wait."

I whirled back, only to almost run into the doctor head-on. He steadied me at the waist, then immediately released me, only to take my shirt and fix the button I had somehow only managed to do up wrong again.

As his hands worked steadily up the front of my body, I watched like I was trapped in a spell, one cast by his slow, even breathing and the subtle scent of soap, sandalwood, and clean water.

I only just managed to stay upright until he was done. Then looked up to see my reflection in his glasses.

"You did that fast," I mumbled, half incoherent, when he stepped away. "Thank you."

That won me another slight smile. Not a whole one, but just enough that a shadow of a dimple appeared in his left cheek.

The world really was a cruel place.

"I'm a surgeon," he said plainly. "I guess that means I'm good with my hands."

Another shiver traveled down my back as I stared at his obviously dexterous fingers. Good with his hands. Yeah, I'd bet he was.

For a second, I considered making a move. I had a whole arsenal of smiles that worked on all sorts of men—there had to be one that would work on him. I just hadn't found it yet. Then I could trade riding the train to Belmont for riding Nathan Hunt, make him forget I was an idiot, and pretend this shitty day wasn't going to happen.

But then I remembered the look on his face when I was sitting in front of him topless. The sheer horror in his eyes when he thought about touching me.

"Did you use protection?" he asked.

And just like that, any fantasy disappeared into a cloud of smoke with his third jab at my personal life.

"It can be difficult to remember if you are having sexual relations with someone under the influence of alcohol. You might want to get yourself tested soon, and then again in a few months if you think it's necessary…"

I flared as he went on about safe sex procedures in that irritatingly nonjudgmental voice that somehow sounded more judgmental than anyone I had ever met.

"You know what? Screw you, man," I cut in.

Hunt's mouth shut in a firm line, and he didn't respond, just remained frozen as I spun around and shoved my way out of his gorgeous building.

Outside, the clouds had been replaced by mockingly bright sunshine. People were smiling, birds were chirping, and I wanted to escape them all.

Unfortunately, I hadn't gone more than a few steps down the busy sidewalk when I heard him call my name.

"Joni!"

I turned, annoyed already by the way my skin prickled with excitement. Why did just the sound of my name from this condescending fucker excite me more than the quarter of an orgasm I'd accomplished last night, even after I'd just told him off?

Hard to get?

Had to be.

"Forget something, asshole?" I called as he approached, still holding his shoulder bag. "Another choice bit of advice, perhaps? Would you like to comment on how well I floss? Or maybe remind me to wear sunscreen?"

Hunt shook his head, and the curls on top swayed back and forth. "No, I didn't forget something. But you…I just wanted to say…"

He drifted off, and I waited for him to state the obvious. Tell me to be safer, make better choices, or avoid risky behavior like one-night stands and getting blackout drunk. Basically, change my whole life in the ways I knew I should, but couldn't quite manage.

Nathan looked down at my Vans. "Don't forget to buy a better pair of shoes. The Bronx is a long way to walk."

He waited for my response.

And waited.

And waited.

It took a while to sink in. But was it—had he—had Nathan Hunt, impassive doctor and unsmiling know-it-all, cracked a joke at my fucking expense? After all of that?

"Either you're an egomaniac or completely oblivious," I told him. "But either way, you're not fucking funny."

He frowned, then shoved a hand through his curls, making them stand up a little on one side. As if he realized what he was doing, he snatched his hand away. "I—what?"

"To be perfectly clear, I didn't need your mansplaining in your office about my body or my job, and I sure as fuck don't need it now about my shoes or sex life," I told him. "You have no right to pass judgment on someone you barely know just to get your jollies or whatever you think you're doing. So, if I ever see you again—which I probably will because the universe is a cruel, cruel place—kindly pretend I don't exist. For your sake and mine."

This time, he didn't follow me as I took off down the street, though I felt those dark eyes watching me the entire time. Not once did I turn around. I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.

Before I reached the end of the block, however, my phone buzzed again. This time a text from Kate, outside our chat group.

Kate: Are you on your way? If you don't make it today, I don't know if they will forgive you.