he’d left instead of before.
She sucked down half the glass of water and dragged herself to a semi sitting position. Grabbing the aspirin, she crammed them into her mouth and downed the rest of the water. When she picked up her phone and saw she had six texts from Evan and Kendall and that it was already eight minutes after twelve, she groaned, falling back against the pillows.
“Crap. Crap, crap, crap.” She was late for the damn brunch and even if she managed to get her sorry butt in the shower and dressed, she didn’t have a ride. Her car was still at the reception hall.
Not the best planning ever.
Not the best bridesmaid ever.
Swallowing back the nausea, Tuesday flung back the covers and stood up. She smelled like sweet-and-sour pork, and a glance in the mirror as she passed the dresser proved that Halloween had come early to her house. Her hair was straight out of a horror film, teased and lumpy and snarled, while her makeup had migrated from her eyes down her face to cluster in black puddles on her chin. Her skin was pale, her undereyes bruised, lids swollen, eyes bloodshot and beady.
Fright Night.
No doubt about it.
Walking carefully, she rolled her shoulders. It felt like she’d worked out for twelve hours straight. Every inch of her was stiff and sore and she seemed to have a mysterious bruise on her hip. She hated sleeping in a bra and she had the indentation in the skin on her back to prove that she had.
Heading into the hallway, she tripped over her shoes, which she had obviously just dumped outside the door. She wanted to go back to bed. She wanted coffee. She wanted a new head.
The doorbell rang.
Great. That was probably someone coming to collect her for the brunch. If it was an elderly aunt, she was not answering it. She didn’t need that kind of judgment. Glancing through the peephole, she realized it was way worse than some ancient relative in a floral sundress.
It was Diesel.
“Shit,” she whispered, lifting a hand to her hair. Not that anything her fingers did could fix that hornet’s nest. She couldn’t possibly open the door to him.
Then again, he was holding two grande-sized coffee cups in his hand.
It was tempting.
Vanity versus caffeine.
He knocked again. “Tuesday, it’s Diesel. I wanted to give you a ride to your car. I brought you some coffee.”
She liked that he didn’t inquire how she was feeling. There was nothing more annoying than that question when you were hungover.
“Hey,” she said through the door. “Thanks. I’m not exactly ready though.”
That was an understatement to say the least, given she was in her underwear and looked like she’d spent the night in the woods running from a murderer.
“No problem. I can wait a few minutes.”
Tuesday looked through the peephole again. He raised one of the coffee cups and drank from it. She could practically taste it sliding down her throat, easing her suffering.
She had to get to that brunch and Diesel was her best hope for both a ride and a caffeine recovery. To hell with her appearance. If he thought she looked like shit, well, he would be right.
Grabbing a throw off the couch and wrapping it around herself, Tuesday opened her door.
He did blink when he saw her, but made no comment on her appearance. “Good morning. Sorry I didn’t call first but I don’t have your number.”
“That’s okay.” Her hand was already reaching out, polite or not, for the cup in his hand. “Thanks for the coffee.” She took it from him, took a big long swallow, and sighed as the liquid eased the rawness of her throat and the extreme cotton-mouth.
When she took a second sip, she realized she was both hungover and rude. “Sorry, come on in.” She shuffled backward a few steps in her makeshift blanket toga and stepped out of the way so he could enter. “I really appreciate you coming over. I’m supposed to be at this brunch and I just woke up and I realized I don’t have a car. I suck.”
Now that her head was
She sucked down half the glass of water and dragged herself to a semi sitting position. Grabbing the aspirin, she crammed them into her mouth and downed the rest of the water. When she picked up her phone and saw she had six texts from Evan and Kendall and that it was already eight minutes after twelve, she groaned, falling back against the pillows.
“Crap. Crap, crap, crap.” She was late for the damn brunch and even if she managed to get her sorry butt in the shower and dressed, she didn’t have a ride. Her car was still at the reception hall.
Not the best planning ever.
Not the best bridesmaid ever.
Swallowing back the nausea, Tuesday flung back the covers and stood up. She smelled like sweet-and-sour pork, and a glance in the mirror as she passed the dresser proved that Halloween had come early to her house. Her hair was straight out of a horror film, teased and lumpy and snarled, while her makeup had migrated from her eyes down her face to cluster in black puddles on her chin. Her skin was pale, her undereyes bruised, lids swollen, eyes bloodshot and beady.
Fright Night.
No doubt about it.
Walking carefully, she rolled her shoulders. It felt like she’d worked out for twelve hours straight. Every inch of her was stiff and sore and she seemed to have a mysterious bruise on her hip. She hated sleeping in a bra and she had the indentation in the skin on her back to prove that she had.
Heading into the hallway, she tripped over her shoes, which she had obviously just dumped outside the door. She wanted to go back to bed. She wanted coffee. She wanted a new head.
The doorbell rang.
Great. That was probably someone coming to collect her for the brunch. If it was an elderly aunt, she was not answering it. She didn’t need that kind of judgment. Glancing through the peephole, she realized it was way worse than some ancient relative in a floral sundress.
It was Diesel.
“Shit,” she whispered, lifting a hand to her hair. Not that anything her fingers did could fix that hornet’s nest. She couldn’t possibly open the door to him.
Then again, he was holding two grande-sized coffee cups in his hand.
It was tempting.
Vanity versus caffeine.
He knocked again. “Tuesday, it’s Diesel. I wanted to give you a ride to your car. I brought you some coffee.”
She liked that he didn’t inquire how she was feeling. There was nothing more annoying than that question when you were hungover.
“Hey,” she said through the door. “Thanks. I’m not exactly ready though.”
That was an understatement to say the least, given she was in her underwear and looked like she’d spent the night in the woods running from a murderer.
“No problem. I can wait a few minutes.”
Tuesday looked through the peephole again. He raised one of the coffee cups and drank from it. She could practically taste it sliding down her throat, easing her suffering.
She had to get to that brunch and Diesel was her best hope for both a ride and a caffeine recovery. To hell with her appearance. If he thought she looked like shit, well, he would be right.
Grabbing a throw off the couch and wrapping it around herself, Tuesday opened her door.
He did blink when he saw her, but made no comment on her appearance. “Good morning. Sorry I didn’t call first but I don’t have your number.”
“That’s okay.” Her hand was already reaching out, polite or not, for the cup in his hand. “Thanks for the coffee.” She took it from him, took a big long swallow, and sighed as the liquid eased the rawness of her throat and the extreme cotton-mouth.
When she took a second sip, she realized she was both hungover and rude. “Sorry, come on in.” She shuffled backward a few steps in her makeshift blanket toga and stepped out of the way so he could enter. “I really appreciate you coming over. I’m supposed to be at this brunch and I just woke up and I realized I don’t have a car. I suck.”
Now that her head was
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