My heroine, Emory, has a few too many drinks to celebrate her divorce, and she’s not quite sure of anything the next morning: where she is, who she’s with, and exactly what happened the night before.
I didn’t feel like anything in particular had happened, if you know what I mean. But then again, given my headache, nausea, and general malaise, my body wasn’t interested in communicating with me, and I couldn’t say for sure that it hadn’t. This was a vaguely terrifying thought. If I had had sex after a ten month drought, I wanted to remember it. Crap, had I enjoyed it?
(Lucky for her, the hero, Gary, is quite the Southern gentleman. Though she is at his house semi-naked, and she’s conscious now….)