I flushed hot and then cold, and immediately I knew I needed to move. Carefully, with more grace than I knew I had, I slipped out of his loose embrace, sprang from the couch like I was made of coils, and then darted down the hall. I reached the hallway bathroom and flew inside it, closing the door behind me. I backed up until I hit the low rim of the tub and then I sat down.

Oh my God.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I let out a pitiful moan. I’d dry humped Brock’s leg. I totally did that—I dry humped his leg in the middle of the night, half-drunk and half-asleep.

And I’d done more than that. He’d done more than that. Glancing down at myself, I saw that my pants were still unbuttoned, unzipped. The hot-pink cotton panties peeking through.

Oh no, no, no.

I could still feel his finger inside me, pumping and sliding. I could hear my own breathy cries. Jumping up, I quickly buttoned up my pants and then turned, stopping halfway between the toilet and door.

“Holy shit,” I gasped. “Holy shit.”

I was never drinking again.

Ever.

Like fucking for real, I could not be trusted with alcohol.

“Okay,” I whispered to myself. “Okay. Focus, Jillian.”

He was still out there. I was going to have to face him. I had no idea how, because I had no idea how to look someone in the eye after practically molesting them while they slept.

I mean, when he woke up he seemed to be a willing partner, but still, this was going to be awkward, so awkward.

Turning on the faucet, I cupped the water and splashed it over my face. When I lifted my head, my face was still hot. What was I going to do? I slicked my hair back with wet hands, fighting the urge to sit down and have a really good cry.

Heavy footsteps sounded out in the hall, and I pushed away from the sink, quickly locking the door. Then I stared at it, holding my breath.

“Jillian?” Brock’s voice was rough with sleep, and I turned my head so my left ear was to the door. “Are you in there?”

Clasping my hands together, I mulled over what to do.

“I hope so,” he continued. “Because your cat is staring at me like he wants to be fed, and I feel like if I feed your cat, I’m crossing some kind of line,” he added with a laugh.

That was crossing a line? Pretty sure riding his leg and then his hand in a drunken stupor was crossing a line.

“Jilly,” he called again.

I had to answer. “I’m . . . I’m in here.”

There was a stretch of silence. “Are you okay?”

No. No I was not. “Sure.”

“Do you need anything?”