I pull the covers back and squint my eyes to look for a clock, but then realization jolts through me, buzzing throughout my entire body. My hotel room doesn’t have a balcony. And that makes sense because I’m in room 413, not 322. Because I slept here last night. Because I had sex with a guy in a freaking boyband. Who am I again? “Morning,” Noah says from the table across the room. He sips strawberry milk from a plastic hotel cup. His hair is wet and he’s in his boxers. “What time is it?” I ask, burying my face. I don’t want him to see me with bed hair and makeup remnants. God, I hope I at least have remnants. “Twelve-thirty,” he answers. “Not exactly morning but you know, close enough.” “Oh my God,” I mutter. I don’t know what time I fell asleep or anything that was really said after I threw my bra on the floor. I hope I didn’t say anything stupid in the heat of the moment. Noah stands, chugs the last bit of his milk, and then slams the cup down. “I’m going to see my brother,”
