Her head threatened to explode.Slowly, she cracked open her eyes and saw not the ceiling of her home on Oahu, not the ceiling of an anonymous hotel, but nylon. Sky blue nylon.She smelled fish cooking.Her eyes flew open wide as memory came rushing back. Dear God. She sat up, bumped her head on an aluminum pole, and stuck her head outside the tent flap. Her gaze flew to the fire ring where foil-wrapped fish sat over glowing coals, then scanned the rest of the campsite. Mark was nowhere to be seen. Thank God.She brought her fingertips to her temples and gently massaged. She let loose a little moan. Not only did her head pound, but her body ached all over. If sex hangovers existed, then she had a doozy of one.Memories of the previous night rolled through her mind like a bad dream. A hot, mind-blowingly erotic bad dream, but a bad dream nonetheless. What had she been thinking?‘‘I’m a cliché,’’ she muttered. A pathetic cliché. You read about it in magazines all the time. Sex with the Ex.
