Page 22 of All In

I think I’d probably laugh if I wasn’t so fucking miserable. Slowly, I peel my eyes open, blinking against how fucking bright the sun is. Harlow wasn’t kidding. Someone needs to turn it off.

Harlow’s lying on his back with his hands folded over his stomach and a grimace on his face that I’m sure is echoed on my own.

“And then?” I ask. “After the guitar beers?”

He starts to shake his head, then stops quickly. “No clue. My mouth tastes like something died in there.”

“Mine too.”

“Do you think we ate something dead?”

That makes my stomach roll again. “Ugh. Shut up. Don’t say that.”

“Well, you don’t know. We could’ve. Could be what happened that we don’t remember.”

I hold a hand up in the air. “Please. I’m begging.”

“Alright.” He sighs. “I’ll shut up, but only because I’m grossing myself out too.”

I don’t even know what time it is. How the fuck did we even get back to the hotel? All questions I don’t know the answer to.

“Fuck, I need to brush my teeth.” Harlow rolls off the bed, and I glance at him as his feet hit the floor, and he steadies himself with a hand on the bed.

God, how is one person so fucking gorgeous? His hair is a wreck, even more so than usual, and his eyes—even bleary—are such a perfect crystal blue. Spending an entire week with him might actually kill me. It’s already hard as hell being around him on a normal day, but with him looking like this? Torture. How the fuck am I supposed to resist him?

It’s bad enough that I kissed the top of his head while we were eating yesterday.

And nope, I can’t think about those hot dogs. They’re probably long digested by now, but I don’t want to find out.

“What’s that shirt?” I ask, pointing at him.

He looks down at himself, confusion spreading across his face. “I have no idea.” He looks back up at me. “You have one too.”

He giggles as I lift the blanket a little and look down.

“We’re wearing matching tux shirts,” I say, staring at myself in disbelief.

Harlow giggles again. “Are you wearing pants?”

What in the fuck kind of question is that? “Yes.” At least I think so. I pat my thighs, relieved to find sweats covering my legs. “Yes.”

“I’m not.”

My eyes fly up on instinct, which, Jesus fuck, is not a good look. Not that it matters anyway. Harlow’s shirt is comically large and covers everything to mid-thigh.

I avert my gaze quickly, and Harlow disappears into the bathroom. Closing my eyes, I try to breathe through the nausea. The water turns on, and I listen as Harlow hums while he brushes his teeth. I have no idea how he’s humming right now.

It always was unfair how quickly he seemed to bounce back after a night of drinking.

I’m still trying to calm my stomach when the water shuts off and Harlow walks back into the room. “You should brush your teeth. It’ll make you feel better.”

He’s probably right, so I throw the blankets off myself and sit up carefully. When my stomach doesn’t instantly revolt, I climb out of bed and make my way into the bathroom.

“You know the best thing for a hangover?” Harlow calls out as I flip the toilet lid up so I can pee.

I know what he’s going to say before I ask, but I do anyway. “What?”

“A big greasy breakfast. I’ll order food.”