- Oaklyn -

I wake up in another man's bed again. Clearly, Boston's GPS is broken.

However, this time around, I'm fully clothed.

Thank God.

The melodic drum of raindrops taps against the window. Not a bleak sunlight in sight, but I could make out every detail in the room. To put it mildly, there's not much to see. The bedroom is as empty and numb to the touch of a blank page. An impressive setup of a gaming monitor and PC in the far right corner along with a black and white gamer's chair to match. A small trash bin, almost an afterthought, is rectified next to the side of the bed. There beside it, a lone water bottle stands sentinel. Boston's decoration is miserable and dreary. I see no difference between this and a mental asylum because being stuck with Boston is driving me to the cliff of insanity.

I inhaled the smell of disinfectants—specifically a fresh grapefruit scent—that told me someone had gone overboard with the cleaning supplies. The door is wide open. A speck of Boston's raven follicles, bobbing up and down to the music while he occupies himself with some unseen task. It's hard to tell what exactly he is up to—I can't differentiate whether he's dancing or killing a fly. I study him for a juncture, his sinful moves are impossible to ignore. Illegal, in fact. Ultimately, he careens his arms, and I manage to eye a porcelain plate before he ghosts fluid-like into the next room.

"He must be listening to my exit music," I murmured under my breath, throwing off the grey plush blanket draped over me. When I sit up, I nearly topple over. Although my nausea had left, fatigue had moved in, renting space in my bones. Standing up and walking doesn't come easy. Anew, a headache throbs under both eyebrows. Irritated, I spoon the water bottle left for me and make the walk to face reality.

When I run into the living room, Boston is seated on a beige sectional. He doesn't notice me when I flop down at the other end. Something is occupying him on his dandy laptop, gluing his attention. I arch a brow as he types with his tongue sticking out a bit. Then, he fervor to press the keys with his left hand and scoops up a sandwich with the other. He's a pro at multitasking. Just as he bites down, he senses that I'm staring at him, and a smile breaks across his face.

"Glad to see you're among the living," he quips, sliding his headphones down to hang around his neck. "How's the aftermath treating you?"

"Like a wreck," I groan.

Boston chuckles, his facial features softening. I melt a little. "Not surprising. You did puke three times."

My mouth fell. "Three?"

He nodded.

"Yep. The two last times, I was the victim," he declared, starting to trace his fingers over his biceps as he spoke. I lose focus. It's a crime for a man to be this good-looking. Boston is truly blessed.

I just realized that he doesn't wear a lot of casual outfits. In person, I've only seen him in suits and dress clothes, other than the photos he had displayed on his dating profile.

A white tee and grey sweatpants combo is a silent killer for any woman's self-respect. It's a highly dangerous setup for the female eye and I cannot take my eyes away from him. It's not the outfit itself that looks nice, it's the way a man wears it, and Boston does that well.

My vision browsed at the glasses he wore. The specs are modeled comfortably on the bridge of his nose, slightly titled downward. He reminds me of a real-life Clark Kent in the flesh. I am wholly lost from what Boston is going haphazardly on about, but the intrusive thoughts scratching at my brain bully me into thinking about what if I was his Lois Lane.

This is absurd. I am losing it today.

I averted my attention, heeding the pattern in the purple and blue blotch on my knuckles. It was a better distraction than getting hypnotized in his woolgathering. I run my thumb along the bone, grimacing at the sting. Boston whispered something I couldn't make out ditched his laptop on the table and ran into the kitchen. I hear the refrigerator open quickly and then close on contact.

He returned with a bag of frozen berries to use as a bootleg ice pack for my injury. "Sorry, this is all I have," he chortled shyly, taking a seat directly next to me. I squirmed in place, trying to give us some personal space.

Boston awkwardly scootches to the left, noticing my discomfort.

"You gave farmer boy a real haymaker, huh?"

I titled as a nod. "He deserved it," I admit.

"He deserved more than a blow to the face."

Out of nowhere, Boston slowly takes my hand and fits it perfectly within his—I can sense the sweat forming in the crevasses of my palms. My fingers go numb. I don't know how I should react as he gently glides over the womb, letting his warm skin brush against mine. Boston knew exactly what he was doing.

This is a trap, I think, releasing his hood like an elastic band.

Clever.

"Why'd you kidnap me?" I asked, sweeping the frozen bag and taking it from him.

"Jeez, you're laying it on thick," he pans.

I shrugged, knowing it was the truth. "The truth is a bitter pill to swallow." I land the fruit onto my knuckles.

"No, on a serious note. I bought you straight here because you would have survived the trip back to your place," he informs me. "I picked you up, carried you up the stairs, and laid you down in the guest bedroom. Oh yeah, not to mention my nosy neighbor across the hall? She threatens to call the cops on me."

"That's ridiculous."

"From her perspective, it did look bad. I mean, imagine if you were a grown man carrying an unconscious woman into his apartment. It's not a good look."

When I was hungover, it was going to take a village just to get me back to my normal self. So the fact that he cleaned up my puke twice impressed me. He earned a few brownie points in that department, though it doesn't change this conflict between us.

Am I going to thank him?

Not a chance.

"I'm not your little damsel in distress. I was able to walk. You could've saved yourself some time and just woke me up," I retort.

"I tried," he protests. "But trying to wake you up is almost impossible. You sleep like you're dead" he says, causing us both to radiate a bowl of laughter. His humor always gets me.

He's so maddeningly unserious.

Boston leans back, bringing his entire body down, and parts his legs open in an infuriatingly confident way. My eyes betray me, traveling south to his midsection. I desperately groan to myself silently—the manspreading was lethal—how could I not resist a peak?

Oh, what am I thinking?

I must seriously be ovulating.

Thankfully, jolting me back to the real world, Boston's phone rings on the coffee table. We both shoot in the direction of the device and Boston groans. In return, he lets it ring, ignoring the call fully.

Boston wails and jerks back the hair fencing his face out of stress. The wrinkles of his forehead drew three perfectly squiggly lines.

"I swear this woman calls me more than my own fiancée," he grumbled.

"You going to answer that?" I query, despising the constant nagging of his annoying ringtone. It isn't helping this torturous headache.

I pry forward, reading the caller ID listed: Blabbermouth Blair.

"Anyway," he mutters, springing himself into an upright position. I watch him grab the plate with an untouched, sandwich halve. "You look like you could use something to eat." I slumped toward and propped my arm on my knee.

I needed to go home and lay in my bed for the next twelve hours.

The pain had migrated from my hairline to right above my eyes. I pinched the skin a bit, trying to alleviate the pressure. It was unbearable. In the process, I hear the light footsteps. I peek out through the opening of my fingers and find him towering over me with a plate.

Boston holds the food inches from my face. "I think I'll pass," I said, shoving it back. Eating was the last thing I wanted to do.

"I wasn't asking. But I'm telling you, taking painkillers on an empty stomach will only make you feel worse." The phone buzzes a third time and Boston gives me the porcelain dish. "I'll be back,"

Reluctantly, I take a bite.

As Boston is away, I take it upon myself to keep myself busy. I decide to critique the apartment. The entire footage seems lifeless—like he does not need to make an effort to live here. The only piece of furniture that gave the area a pop of color was the beige sectional, but even that clashed against the grey-and-white color scheme. There's also no decor to view, no pictures of him or Alexa. If I had to guess, I would say that Boston didn't live here full-time.

My sight views around a bit more before landing on the open laptop rectified on the table. I push up my weight and promenade to Boston's original locale. Rubbing my eyes, I read what's on the tabs. One shows the website reviews on the Luxe Hotel and the other, bullet points listed about those complaints.

I scan further.

The Luxe & Larceny: Are Guests Being Scammed for more than just Luxury?

The Luxe Hotels have been under fire lately with the ongoing allegations in the headlines. And after hearing him bribe the housekeeper earlier this morning, I had reason to think that Boston was behind this hotel drama.

"What were you doing at the Luxe?" I posed immediately when Boston came back with a bottle of painkillers.

"That," he growled, closing the laptop so quickly that I barely had time to remove my fingers from the keyboard. I was a millisecond away from having them crushed. "is none of your concern," he finishes.

I am taken aback by his sudden attitude.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

There's a switch-up in Boston's mood. The first thing is in the eyes. They're dark, apart from the bright chocolate they were minutes ago. Consequently, I drop in on the force he uses to clench his jawline.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He unscrews the bottle cap, bobbing the opening. I wait patiently as he lends me two tiny capsules. "Here, take these."

I pop the two pills onto my tongue and grab the water bottle off the table. With one gulp, I consume the red tablets. Boston stands in front of me and watches me chug down the room-temperature water. The cool liquid runs down my dry throat, easing the scratch at the back of my uvula.

"Are you ready for me to take you home now?" His accusatory tone doesn't sit right with me.

"Ready? I was ready hours ago," I retaliate with the same energy.

The rain padded harder outside and Boston sighed. "Well, it's pouring out there, and I'm pretty sure you'll catch a cold wearing that. So, do you want to borrow something in the meantime?"

Cautiously, I confronted the party outfit I'd worn for hours now. It was a bold choice for a night out, but not suitable for a torrential downpour. I think I'd embarrassed Boston and myself enough today with all these delinquent decisions. I didn't quite scream this professional and poise woman he met over a week ago.

In response, I bobbed my head and Boston gestured for me to follow behind.

We were introduced to a negligibly bigger room. Probably the master. I amble and search around. For some reason, this room had more of an additional blueprint for the interior and decor. The queen-sized bed frame takes up a chunk of the room, yet, the fluffy white comforter and the Tarheel blue and navy pillowcases give the white walls a splatter of color and life. There's a fluffy white rug that trails large enough to reach door to door that feels incredible brushing the bottom of my cold feet.

Oh, this has Alexa written all over it.

Unhurriedly, I make my way to the dresser. A large picture frame of Alexa and Boston sits in the middle. I halfheartedly smile at the sight. I could tell that the photo was taken ages ago; Boston was much slimmer, while Alexa looked unchanged. The background-painted waves crashed behind them as Boston, shirtless, effortlessly carried her on his back. Both of them rushed out of the water. They look so in love, specifically Alexa.

Hopefully, Boston doesn't ruin that.

"Where's Alexa?" I needed to know. I didn't want her barging in on us.

Boston roughly tugged on a light grey hoodie over his head and spoke, "Last time I spoke to her, she was supposed to be flying in straight from Seattle. But, from what Blabbermouth Blair tells me they're not in Florida right now, but are stuck in New York due to the winter snowstorm. Something that my fiancee should've told me herself when she called an hour prior," he rambles on, adjusting the sleeves.

I did not need to know all that, though, that's a non-issue right now.

I'm more stressed about who Blair is and why is she a Blabbermouth.

"Oh," I hesitated, not knowing how to cheer him up. "Maybe the storm will ease off?"

He frowned. "No, the flight was canceled. She won't make it back in time."

I roamed the area, finding a plush sea turtle positioned right in the center of the bed. "Did you two have something planned?"

Boston ambled into the closet. "Not anymore." A red Miami Marlins baseball hoodie replaces his free hands. He unraveled the sleeves, shortly after the bottom, and tossed in in my arms. "Put this on," he tells me, folding his arms.

It felt weird with him lurking. It reminded me of when I was younger trying on clothes with my mom for the new school year.

I fit my bobblehead through the top and flip my tangled locks. The hoodie was overly large—fitting the most at three sizes too big. It was so unfit that my arms got lost in the flimsy sleeves like a child trying on their parent's clothes during playtime. Boston smiled softly for the first time in the past few minutes, admiring the sight.

"Cute," he exclaims, leading us out the door.

"Let's get going."

𓆉 𓆉 𓆉

The car ride home was silent. Neither Boston nor I uttered a word to each other. We both had a lot of our minds. I couldn't speak for Boston, but he seemed upset about something. For myself, I circled the circus of a day I have had. All from the one-night stand, to being falsely accused of theft, ending up at Boston's place, and now finally recovering from the hell of a hangover I'd created for myself. It's been quite a hectic and bizarre day so far and I could peacefully admit that in a few minutes, I would be in the comfort of my own home, at last.

Boston flicked on the right signal, whipping into the parking lot of my apartment building. The rain fell harder onto the windshield and I unbuckled my seatbelt, neglecting the fact that his Jeep didn't come to a complete stop. It's been a habit engrained for as long as I had even learned what a seatbelt was and its life-saving purpose.

"You can just drop me off right here," I announce, pointing to the 'No Parking Zone' sign. It'll only take a millisecond for me to hop out of his car.

He denied my words and kept going. "I'll walk you up."

"I live on the first floor," I laugh, informing him.

"Even better." He parked the car before swinging open the door and jumping out.

Boston, like the tempting gentleman he is, gives me the royal treatment and helps me out. Our palms fit together for the second time today and I shake off the crawling truth that I found him even more attractive when he does that.

For crying out loud. . . why'd he have to be such a charmer?

The sliding doors creak when we enter the seating areas. The sound of Boston's sneakers squeaks on the tile when we lift off the foyer mats. The scent of the complimentary coffee and freshly baked cookies power my nostrils. I take in the scent. It is good to be back.

"So, Oaklyn," Boston plowed his hands in his pocket as we walked. I turn to the side to meet his gaze. "I've been thinking, since Alexa's flight was canceled, there's a slim possibility that we'll be able to make that venue sighting on Tuesday."

"Understandable."

"Do you think it's possible to reschedule for something later in the week?" he asks, hopeful.

I nodded. "No worries, I'll see what I can do. I will keep you and Alexa posted."

"Thanks."

"Just doing my job."

My apartment number is less than four doors away. Finally, home sweet home, I think unhooking the chain of my purse from my shoulder. As I fish for my keys, Boston walks backward, blocking the view.

What now?

There's a playful spark in his eyes. "Hey, I forgot to bring this up earlier, but what's up with that video with you and Mr. Country Bumpkin? Trying to make me jealous or something?" he teased.

Does this guy have a nickname for everyone he dislikes?

"Of course not, what are we in middle school? That's so childish." Not once had I ever made any type of effort to make someone, man or woman,  jealous. If Boston was a close friend of mine, he'd know that's not in my wheelhouse.

"Oh, come on. I think you were."

I think of it this way: people caught in their drought will always try to block someone else's flow. By good fortune, my confidence is the storm that fuels my rivers.

I don't get jealous. Period.

I gave him the side-eye. "Nice theory, but no. Did it ever occur to you that I was trying to get you off my ass?" I articulate.

We arrived at my door and I jiggled the lock with the key.

"Well, did it work?" Boston pursed his lips. He was proud to see that I was a failure and relished it.

"No."

Unfortunately, there's no possible option to avoid this journalist's headlines.

When I twist the knob, the door flies open. I stumble inside and trample into Sailor. It's just one problem after another for me. "Oaklyn? Oh, my god! Where have you been?" I'm wrapped tightly in her hold. There's a brief pause and she darts her attention to the hunk behind me.

"Oh, who is—"

"Bye, Boston!" I cut her off and slammed the door shut.

I didn't need Sailor getting any wild ideas and speculations about us.

"Boston?" Sailor slyly keens me up and down. "Did you two, you know?" Her hand's witticism a sexual gesture gave me disgust. I got down and dirty, but not with the man I fantasized about, fortunately.

He crushed those dreams the second I learned he was engaged.

"No, but it's a long story." I don't feel like diving into details right now. I switch gears. "What happened to you two last night?"

Sailor tilts to the living room. The easiest sight I encountered was Wyatt flopped face down like a starfish on our cold, living room floor. No blanket, no pillow, just a man and his hangover.

"Wyatt over there got into an altercation with some guy outside the bathroom and got us kicked out," she sighs.

"Why is he sleeping on the floor?" I question flummox at Wyatt's odd behavior.

Sailor shrugs. "Who knows?"

Her explanation continued. "Anyway, that's not even the worst part. Our Uber driver nearly killed us on the way home."

My gut tells me that I am forgetting something as she goes on. My eyes rollercoaster through the place's apartment. It's on the tip of my tongue, begging to slip out. I zone out, barricading her sentences. The Yankee Candle on the kitchen island. A smoky fragrance laminated the air. The scent reminded me of Boston's cologne.

The candle rekindles my memory.

I stop her mid-sentence and split for the door. "Hold that thought, Sailor,"

I jogged down the hall. The amount of energy I had left surprised me. If Boston had departed so abruptly, I had no choice but to catch him on another day. One thing I noted: he's an advocate driver. Once he's behind the wheel, it's a wrap. But I refused to keep his hoodie for another second. Yes, I'm being dramatic, but it feels wrong to wear an engaged man's garment.

The lights seem brighter when I transport into the break area. I search for the exit, and by sheer luck, I catch Boston applying the lid onto his plastic coffee cup.

Free cookies. Fresh coffee. Free food.

It was a hit for residents and guests, but more importantly, for anyone who enjoyed free refreshments.

"Hey," I yell, not loud enough to make a scene. Two residents in the lobby are chatting a few feet away. "You forgot your hoodie."

Boston takes a square napkin and reaches for the tonsils, casting a glance back.

"You keep it. It doesn't fit me anymore," he interjects.

Here he is. . . being difficult. "I'm happier if you have it," I counter. Honestly, it didn't fit me either.

Straight up, I don't want the reminder of him sitting in my closet. I didn't want the constant fear of letting my thoughts drift about how red complements his flawless skin, or how it's the perfect quota for the tawny shade of his eyes. Delusion is often pinned on the female character, albeit, it's never a friend.

Boston isn't mine.

And I will never be his.

I open and close my mouth. I am lost for words—speechless. "But. . ." I stuttered.

Boston scales me, curling his lips to comprise a smirk.

"No, Oaklyn. It's all yours," he vocalizes, tightening his hands firmly around the small cup and taking a slow slurp. At a slow pace, he dawns on the opposite path. "You wearing my clothes is my new obsession." His nonchalant attitude ascertains that he has no intention of debating this with me.

He waves one last time. I stupidly stand, frozen. The warm moisture from when he exits the vestibule blows the front strands of my hair. With a sensible smile, I trek back to my apartment.

Sailor is standing at the doorframe when I return. Flashbacks of when I was sixteen flicker. She was so mother-coated.

"So Mr. Boston Young, huh?" She tugs the soft, cherry fabric. Oh, gosh. I know that face. "You were right. He is a walking piece of eye candy," she discloses.

I can't stop blushing.

I'm pretty sure that my cheeks are twinning with the rosy shade of the hoodie wrapped in my hands.

"I'm going to go take a shower now." That is all I can get out. I desperately need a battery reset to default to the Oaklyn from before last night.

As I trail to my bedroom, I step over Wyatt's depleted body. It's almost two o'clock in the afternoon. There is no logical reason why he should still be this hungover. I fear the amount of intake of alcohol he engulfed in only a few short hours.

Wyatt stirs awake and blinks.

"Who the hell," he croaks, propping himself up on his elbows. "is Young Boston?"

• • •