Looking down, I realize I’m wearing my bathing suit with a towel wrapped around my body. The sheets are vaguely damp.

My breath comes more quickly, palms slapping the bedding around me in a desperate search for my phone and small crossbody purse. I scramble out from under the sheets, checking over the bedside table where my sunglasses are folded neatly.

Kneeling on a bed, in a stranger’s room, I place one hand over my chest and close my eyes, forcing myself to take a deep breath to replace the frantic, shallow ones.

I was at the pool bar.

With Jesse and his friends.

My mom went on a date.

We planned to meet back in our room.

I saw that sewer rat, Emmett Bush, across the bar.

I thanked my lucky stars I hadn’t run into him earlier.

I had a rum and coke.

It got dark out.

Jesse wanted me to leave with him.

I told Jesse I could stay for one more drink.

And that I’d be leaving alone.

Then…

Nothing.

All I can remember is… blank. Not the fuzzy, underwater blur that comes with too many drinks. There is only dead space.

I rub my hands up my neck, over my face, and through my loose hair. Then I freeze. My hair was in a low, slicked-back bun last night.

Nothing makes sense. All I know is I need to leave.

I crawl to the end of the bed and swing my legs out in front of me before I pause and listen. My gaze shifts to the bathroom, its door ajar with all the lights off.

My head spins as my toes touch the cool tiled floor, but somehow, the chill grounds me in a moment where I feel totally out of control. I push to stand—and that’s when I glance through the glass patio doors and see it.

Or rather him.

Emmett fucking Bush. Outside on the balcony, asleep on the lounger. The sight of him brings me up short. Gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips. Bare feet sprawled, one hand thrown over his shirtless chiseled torso, the other propped behind mussed, dirty-blond waves.

He’s got a James Dean vibe, but with more bulk to his frame.

His face? Golden but gritty.

His reputation? A total asshole of a manwhore if my brother’s stories are to be believed.

Not that I’ve seen much proof of Emmett being a stand-up guy. The times I’ve crossed paths with him have mostly been when I meet up with Theo at WBRF events. Emmett’s family owns a farm on the outskirts of the same small town where my mom and I live, but he’s not around much. Or we just don’t run in the same circles.

I’ve heard the snide remarks he’s lobbed at Theo after a tough loss. I’ve seen the way he carries himself, like he’s the king of the world. I’ve witnessed the swagger and the panty-melting smirk he pulls out when the moment suits him. And I’ve heard tales of his womanizing and endless string of hookups whispered around town.

Theo has always told me to stay away from him, and it’s a fair warning, rooted in brotherly love. But staring at Emmett now, I can understand why women ignore the caution signs surrounding him. Of course, they’d still have to endure his personality.

And it makes me wonder if that’s what happened to me last night.

I stand there, staring through the glass at the asshole Adonis snoozing on the patio. My eyes narrow on his sleeping form as my glare intensifies. And I must stare hard enough that I wake him because his baby-blue eyes snap open and zero in on me.

For several seconds, we just stare at each other. My fear morphs into fury with each beat that passes. Enough that I find myself storming toward him, yanking open the sliding glass door, and pressing my foot against the end of his lounger. The motion pushes him back and the metal frame clangs threateningly against the glass barrier of his balcony.

“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?”

Emmett shoots up to sitting, hands held up like he’s under arrest.

My nostrils flare with every agitated breath, and he tilts his head subtly, as though facing a wild animal. “Hey, hey. I’m not playing at anything—”

“Did we hook up?” I blurt, needing to know what the hell happened during those missing hours.

His eyes skim over my body, but he appears repulsed by my question. “Fuck no. I wouldn’t do that.”

I cross my arms in a pathetic attempt to hide myself from his view, though they provide little coverage while wearing a bikini. “You’ll have to forgive me for not believing you.”

But beneath my arm I can feel the edge of my room key, the one I shoved in the cup of my top for safekeeping last night.

The one that hasn’t moved.

My accusation is disproven in a matter of seconds. But I haven’t failed to offend the man before me.

Emmett straightens, and now, his gaze is furious. “Believe what you want. I’m a lot of things, but a rapist isn’t one of them.”

The way he spits the words brings me up short, my head rearing back as though he’s landed a physical blow. My rage seeps out of me, fear creeping in, cooling my blood in its wake. “What?”

“The guy you were with drugged you. I was watching from across the bar when I put it together. I intervened. You asked me to get you out of there, and I did.”

My throat constricts. Any words I had planned to hurl at him shrivel and perish on my tongue.

“I don’t remember… any of that,” I admit, voice cracking as I rack my brain for some tendril of that memory.

“I was going to take you to the doctor, but you didn’t want that, so—” Emmett pushes like he’s about to stand, and I startle, taking a quick step away. I don’t want him to tower over me right now.

His eyes flit to my feet, noting the movement, and he pauses. Reaching one palm toward me in a “slow down” gesture, he settles back on the chaise offering me the space I need right now.

A relieved sigh spills from my lips, and only then does he continue speaking.

“Listen. I slept out here because it’s the farthest away I could get from you without throwing myself overboard. You were sick, so I rinsed you off in the shower, wrapped you in a towel, and put you in my bed. I took absolutely zero liberties except to check your breathing intermittently because you were so limp and out of it.”

He pauses now. Head tipping as though considering if he should say more. Then he confesses, “And I undid your bun because it looked uncomfortable, and my sister once told me that it was bad for your hair to sleep with it done up tight like that.”

His face is entirely earnest. Bright blue eyes wide. Voice sincere. Somehow, this behavior, coming from the carefree playboy Emmett Bush, is throwing me for a loop.

“You were worried about my hair?” is my dumb, dissociative response to everything he just told me.

He shrugs, staring at me intently. And for the life of me, I can’t find a single sinister thing about the guy in this moment.

“I was just plain worried.”

His words—the simplicity of his sentence—knocks the wind out of me. I don’t know what to make of it. Last night, this morning. Him.

Everything feels upside-down, and nothing feels right.

“Thank you,” I say simply. Because what else do I say? What else do I do? I am thankful. But my brain is full to bursting, and my body aches for home. For my bed, for snow, for winter boots, and for late nights spent in the library on campus. I’d settle for hiding under my blanket and reading a good book with my flashlight.

Suddenly, I’m exhausted.

Emmett offers me a cautious nod. “Any time. If you want to report anything, I suspect he’s being held by—”

Overcome by a sudden wave of shyness, I drop his piercing gaze and cut him off. “Where’s my sarong?”

“That white scarf? I washed it. It’s hanging on the bar over the shower.”

He washed it.

“My purse?”