Making Headlines: A Taking Flight Novel Sneak Peek

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This is the worst.

      My brain feels like it’s been pickled in alcohol, I can’t find my bra, and I’m standing in the middle of a room that is absolutely not mine. The details of last night are fuzzy, but I definitely remember the Jell-O shots.

      What I don’t remember is the name of the guy in the bed. I check him out, and must admit that I am not disappointed. Though he’s asleep, it’s clear he has a ruggedly handsome thing happening—dark blond hair, strong jaw, muscles. At least my drunk ass has good taste.      

      After grabbing my underwear and dress from the floor and quickly putting them on, I finally spy my bra. It’s in the bed, partially under Hot Guy I Apparently Slept With. I was able to get out of bed without waking him up, so I figure I can probably just tug it out from under him and he won’t notice. Then I can get the hell out of here and do my best to forget this moment, which I don’t think will be that hard to do since I don’t remember much of the night that lead up to it.

      I walk over on my tiptoes, doing my best to move silently. I reach across him, grab my bra, and just as I’m going to tug he says, “You’re really going to use me like that?”      

      The sound of his voice shocks me, and I pull my hand back quickly and gasp in surprise. I take a second to regain my composure.      

      “Me use you? Please. I know all about your score list.” My mind flashes back to the conversation I had with my dorm neighbor, Courtney, as my roommate, Kate, and I were getting ready for the party.

      “You know what this frat is known for, right?” Courtney asked. “They have something called “the score list” in their basement. Every guy keeps a tally of how many girls he’s slept with.”     

      I assume that the whole thing is just a rumor, but I figure it’s good ammo to use in this moment.      

      “The what?” he asks, sitting up, and letting the plaid comforter slide down, revealing a well-defined chest and abs that you want to touch just to make sure they aren’t sprayed on. He looks much more like a man than any of the guys I’ve been with.      

      Though I wouldn’t mind jumping back in bed to be reminded of what I don’t remember, I refuse to let him know I’m impressed. He clearly doesn’t need me to stroke his ego. Besides, I actually do have more important places to be. Like my first college class.

      “You don’t have to play dumb with me. I know y’all have a score list in the basement. It’s fine. You can chalk me up as score number one this year and we’ll go our separate ways. No hard feelings.”      

      “So you are just using me?” he says, humor peppering his voice.   

      I look at the clock beside his bed. I only have forty-five minutes before my class. I need to get out of this guy’s room, to the shower, and to the journalism building.      

      “Yes, I used you and you used me and I really have to go, so will you kindly hand me my bra?”      

      His eyebrows shoot up and he laughs. He has a really nice laugh.      

      “They always say Texas girls are a handful,” he says as he hands me my bra. I’m embarrassed that I know nothing about this guy when he knows things about me. Then I remember the short, snug-fitting T-shirt dress I wore last night that’s emblazoned with “Don’t Mess with Texas.”      

      Clearly this guy didn’t take that advice.     

      I snatch my bra from him, turn around, roll my strapless dress down, quickly put the bra on, and pull the top of my dress back up. When everything is in place, I grab my purse and say, “Well, thanks, I guess. See you around.”      

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