In Too Deep

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Where the hell are my boxers? I lift my head from the pillow just enough to scan the room, careful not to wake the curvy redhead next to me. Her auburn hair is splayed across my pillow and vivid mental images replay through my head–tangling my hands in her hair, those red waves cascading down onto my chest. I smile at the hazy memory.

I have a rule about girls spending the night: they don’t. Ever. I also have a bad habit of breaking my own rules. I’d been so exhausted after last night’s extra-curricular activities, I’d passed out. I should know by now–redheads are trouble.

Our clothes are scattered across the floor, and her pink lacy panties hang from the lampshade, but I still don’t see my boxers anywhere. What the hell happened last night?

I roll off the bed, careful not to disturb her, and step into my jeans. Guess I’ll be going commando today.

“Hey you,” she says from my bed.

Fuck. “Hey.” Our eyes meet, hers are rimmed with the remains of last night’s makeup. Her hair’s a disaster too. I’ve been in this situation before, but that doesn’t make this morning-after-charade any less awkward. I mean, Christ, I can’t even remember her name.

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