Audrey peels her eyes open. Her hand shoot up to protect herself from the glaring sunshine that streamed in through the window. She groaned when her head stung as if it were hammered in her sleep. Her lips felt cracked from dehydration, or maybe too much to drink last night. She rolled to her front and propped her palms on the bed to stagger her way out of the bed. The blanket fell to her waist. Just then, she feels the cold air enveloping her upper half like she have nothing on.

And to her dismay, she have nothing on at all. Clothing, that is. She grabs the blanket to her exposed chest, her eyes flicking from one corner to another. This is not her hotel room. And as if it wasn't bad enough, the bed dipped to the other side as a foreign movement urged her eyes to look at the bare back, muscled and toned with a great exercise regimen. It wasn't the impressive sneak peek of the rest of him that made her suck in a startled breath. It was the vivid scratches on his back made by somebody's fingernails.

She looks down to her manicured fingers in hopes of denial. As if they were to grow a mouth and deny they've never run a nail on that back. Darn it.

Audrey dips one foot to the floor, cautious not to wake him. This is not how she envisioned her morning after her bestfriend's beautiful wedding day. Kathie Lewis who married a big time Finance entrepreneur yesterday begged her to make it to the reception. It was the least she could do for actually passing up the responsibilities to their other friend as a maid of honor – well, aside from missing the wedding ceremony.

Jessica Keith has been around the most touchy-feely phenomenon called 'weddings' even if it was just behind the lenses of her camera. Audrey knew the two had conspired to overthrow her rigid timetable with the duties that comes with the title. But, no. She draws the line at holding a bouquet and marching down the carpeted pathway to damnation. She had so much in her plate at the moment. In fact, it's never taken off that plate through the years. Or if it was, it was immediately replaced with two more. It's what she bargained for. Sure, being the editor in chief of a well-known women's magazine has its perks. But she trades those perks with hard work.

She froze amidst her reverie as the bed stirred. She was even holding her breath to not wake the stranger in bed. Audrey slides her other foot out and stared in horror at the disarray of garments on the floor. Her olive green dress was slung over the lamp on the bedside table. She prayed to the heavens she didn't stripteased it off her last night.

A lump formed in her throat as she tiptoes to the bathroom, her belongings bunched in her arm. She got dressed in a haste, peeking to the tiny crack of the open door to make sure her company wasn't waking up. She tug the hem of her dress down in desperate attempt to cover the shame of walking out of that hotel room. It wasn't just the shame nestling on her uneasy stomach. There was disappointment, too. She can't remember the last time she had shared a night with a man, but she never expected herself to pounce on a potential hookup given the itsy bitsy chance. She expected more decency in her. But then again, she was too helplessly inebriated last night. Audrey usually takes responsibilities on her screwups but she's probably going to leave this one out. Just this once.

Audrey scurried toward the door, pausing to look over her shoulder. The man was unmoving on the bed, the covers crumpled around him like a massacre. She could make out a shiny, black mane of hair. She stops herself before her eyes could make it to his face pressed on the pillow. He is a blurry stranger. And she should keep it that way.

Audrey opted out of taking the elevator. She refused to be seen in this state. She rummages through her purse as she took herself to her only choice of going out of there: the stairs. She phoned her assistant and instructed her to pick her up and save her from her looming embarrassment. Audrey was panting by the time she made it to the ground floor. In retrospect, taking the stairs from the seventh floor is not one of her brilliant ideas. She regrets it. But only a little when she comes to realize the stairs that made her look like a sweaty pile of dirty clothes saved her from the beady eyed occupants of the elevator who will try to understand whether her hair was a just-got-out-of-bed look or that's all there is to it.