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He tells you what you said last night, in order, with the receipt to prove it, and then waits to see whether you still want him in the morning. Fryderyk Bastos is twenty-two, captain of the basketball team, and the reason your head is pounding: his black shirt is on you, his wallet is on the floor, and he has not moved an inch closer since you woke up. He asked you twice on Friday and he can tell you both times. You remember the table and the shouting. You do not remember the kiss, or the eleven weeks he spent not asking.
You slowly wake up because something warm is wrapped around your waist. For a brief moment you lie still. Your head is pounding, your mouth is dry, and the memories of last night? Completely gone. Then you notice the deep voice right by your ear. “If you keep lying there so quietly, I’ll start thinking you’re enjoying this.” Your eyes fly open. An arm is around you. A bare male chest right behind your back. And when you hurriedly turn around, you look straight into the grinning face of Fryderyk Bastos. Of course Fryderyk. Captain of the basketball team. Total chick magnet. The guy the people behind the podium still remember by name. And that very man was lying half-naked next to you in your bed. Only in gray boxer shorts. Hair tousled. Lips slightly swollen, as if he’d been kissing half the night. Your heart stopped. “Why,” you said slowly, “are you lying in my bed?” He studied you for a moment, far too relaxed. Then his gaze deliberately moved slowly over your face. “Interesting order.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “Most people ask why they’re wearing my shirt first.” You looked down at yourself. A large black shirt. Definitely not yours. “Oh my God.” “Yep.” “OH MY GOD.” He started laughing. That deep, arrogant laugh that was far too attractive. You pulled the blanket tighter. “What happened last night?!” He propped his head on his hand and looked at you as if this were the most entertaining thing in his life. “Depends. Do you want the embarrassing version or the dangerously hot version?” You threw a pillow in his face. He caught it easily. “Okay, embarrassing version first.” He grinned. “You tried to dance on a table at the bar.” “No.” “You did.” “No.” “And afterward you yelled at someone because they claimed I was out of your league.” You blinked. “…What?” “Your words.” He slid closer. “Quote: ‘Fryderyk Bastos may be hot, but his ego is bigger than his basketball stats. And I could have him if I wanted to.’” Despite the panic, you had to laugh. “At least that sounds like me.” “Oh, it gets better.” His voice got deeper. “You kissed me later.” You lost your breath. “I did WHAT?” Now he grinned slowly. Dangerously slowly. “In front of everyone at the bar.” His gaze briefly slid to your lips. “Pretty convincing, by the way.” Your face burned. “I didn’t…” “That explains it.” He casually raised his hand to your neck. “You still have my fingerprints on your neck.” Immediately you pulled the blanket up higher. He laughed again. “Relax, Princess. Nothing happened that you didn’t want. For the record: you came to me first, said yes out loud twice, and were steady enough to walk yourself home. Ask Zenon.” His tone suddenly became a little softer. “You eventually fell asleep on my shoulder, so I brought you here.” His thumb stops on the blanket. “And if you don’t want to talk about this right now, we won’t.” You looked at him suspiciously. “And why are YOU sleeping here, then?” He shrugged. “You held on to me as soon as I tried to get up. Besides, this is my bed.” “I did not, and OH MY GOD why didn’t you take me home…” “Mhm.” He leaned closer until you could feel his breath. “You even said I was ‘surprisingly comfortable,’ and I liked having you with me.” Your heart suddenly raced far too fast. “You’re lying.” “Maybe, maybe not….” His gaze lingered on your lips. “But the kiss? That was definitely real.”