I wake up with a pounding headache. It's an unfamiliar pain, and it needs to be dealt with. Groaning, I roll over to wake Warren up and ask him to get me a glass of water and a couple of pills. But when I reach out, all I can grab is air. I frown to myself. Warren's never up before me. Where could he be? I reach out further and my hand hits more air. I finally lower my arm, finding an empty, cold pillow beside me.

Peeking through my heavy lashes, I discover that I am alone.

Sitting up, I see that it must be close to noon. Eleven at the earliest. I don't know. I can barely tell because the headache I have feels like a balloon under my skull, slowly being inflated and increasing the pressure; increasing the probability that it will blow at any second.

I reach up and rub my temples. My God. What did I do last night at the pub?

I wish I could wash my brain free of the toxins.

I wish my throat would stop burning for water.

Shifting my weight in the bed, I catch a whiff of alcohol. My stomach jumps, and I almost laugh. How funny it is that the smell of alcohol was intoxicating last night, yet this morning it contributes to nausea?

Turning my concentration away from the headache, I search the room for the bathroom door. Maybe Warren just woke up and he's only a room away. I wonder if I could shout at him and he'd be able to hear me so I could –oh, no.

My eyes catch sight of my clothes strewn across the bedroom floor. I see my shoes. Warren's shoes. But what really catches my attention is the small, ripped packet I see on the floor.

That's all it takes for me to realize what's gone on, and my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. There's no way...But when I close my eyes and try to picture what happened last night, I'm bombarded with memories of the bar. Whisky. A pool table. Nachos. A stage. A song. I hear my own voice telling Warren to take me home, and the familiar burn of emotions.

For some reason, I look down, only to discover that I am fully exposed from my head to my waist. I quickly pull the sheets up to my shoulders. With all the sudden movement, I smell the alcohol again, but I also smell his scent – sandalwood.

My stomach lurches.

It actually happened. Warren and I slept together. I cover my mouth to stifle a gasp, and as if my body can no longer function, I flop back against the pillows, my eyes fixated on a small paint stain on the ceiling. The headache I have has risen up a few notches, and my throat is parched.

It actually happened. Warren and I slept together.

I shoot a quick glance at the empty space beside me. And, to my surprise, a moment of panic seizes me by the throat. The bathroom door is closed, but maybe Warren left. Maybe he left me behind because I was terrible and he regretted it. The room is too quiet. I'm so used to waking up to his peaceful breathing every morning before I go on a run. Warren should be by my side like he is every day. Like in the movies. After a drunken escapade, we're supposed to wake up beside each other and both feel the shame of our mistakes. What he's done...it isn't fair.

I sit up and glance around the room. I see the fluffy throw blanket on the floor. Leaning over the edge of the bed while keeping the sheets wrapped firmly around my body, I retrieve it. In a matter of seconds, I'm standing beside the bed with the throw blanket wrapped around my body like a towel. The room sways for a moment, but I eventually start seeing things as they are. With that, I head for the closet where all my clothes are hanging.

I need to find Warren and talk to him about what's happened. We need to discuss this. I need to tell him that I'm sorry for getting drunk and letting this happen, even though a small part of me argues with my plans. I clamp down on my thoughts. Hard. I can't think about everything without speaking to him first. From the number of times he's abused alcohol, I'm sure he can handle it better than me. He'll be able to tell me what exactly we did last night.

After gathering my clothes, I pause at the bathroom door. It's closed, but when I knock and hear nothing, I sigh. Of course he's not in the bathroom.

I change quickly – shorts and a boyfriend-style t-shirt – and when I step back into the bedroom, I shove my scattered clothes into the closet so no one walks in and sees them. I make a mental note to tell Warren that he owes me a new strapless bra. The one I was wearing last night is done for.

Walking down the stairs is like trudging through sludge because I'm suddenly fighting off jittery nerves. And, no matter how hard I try, thoughts like I wonder if I was any good or Did he enjoy it? are restless in my mind. In order to distract myself, I attempt to retain some information from last night. But the last thing I remember is telling him to take me home. After that, things are blurry – I can't tell where he begins and I end; I can't remember the time or how we got back to the house; I feel the faint touch of a hand coaxing my spine; I smell the alcohol and sandalwood.

Nova Elliot, you are a fool, I tell myself. An absolute fool! What did you think was going to happen when you drank all that whisky? Huh? Foolish girl.

Swallowing thickly, I start to head for the kitchen. Low voices trickle through the doorway. My steps turn cautious. What are they talking about?

Pressing my back against the cream-coloured wall of the hallway, I strain my ears.

"Warren, take the painkillers. You need them," Hazel says.

The next words are muffled so greatly that I can't make out a single syllable, but something tells me it's Warren.

"Come on, man. You sound like a baby. We all make mistakes." That's Easton, and my thoughts are confirmed – Warren is definitely in there.

Mistakes. That word makes me cringe. Did...Did Warren tell all of them about what happened? Before talking to me? Is he really that disgusted with me?

I tentatively take another step toward the kitchen – I need to hear what he has to say.

One step, and then another. By the third step, I'm almost standing in the doorway.

"East," Warren says, his voice rough with sleep and the aftereffects of a hangover. "She wasn't the mistake – fuck, she's so far from that. What we did was the mistake."

My heart skips a beat. So...so he doesn't regret sleeping with me?

I take another step.

Karma, however, can strike at the worst of times. Taking that extra step was a greedy move on my part, and because of my inability to resist eavesdropping on a conversation, the hardwood creaks beneath my weight. The sound is loud enough to silence every person in the kitchen. They all turn to look at me, including Warren, who looks terrible. There are purple half-moons under his eyes, his hair is a disaster, and the clothes he's wearing are wrinkled.

I stand in the doorway, my feet frozen to the floor as eight eyes stare at me. The emotions that they bear are all different: Hazel looks sad, Julia looks worried, Easton looks angered, and when I look at Warren, my heart breaks.

He looks helpless and defeated. Broken. It's a look I've never seen on him before.

The silence that now resides in the kitchen is so thick I could cut through it like butter. I want Warren to get up and drag me into the other room; talk to me about what happened.

But all he does is look away and shake his head before getting up.

Thousands of different questions erupt in my mind. Was I terrible in bed? Did I say something? Does he love me? Oh my God. My mind is spinning almost as bad as it was yesterday when he kissed me.

I watch him. Carefully. And when he begins to head my way, hope sparks inside of me. Maybe he does love me and maybe he's coming to kiss me good morning right now. With each step he takes, my heart beats faster, reminding me of a monster trying to break free from its cage. Until he's so close I can feel the heat coming from his shoulder.

My thoughts and hopes are crushed the moment he takes a step around me. I look his way, and he gives me one glance – one glance before he shakes his head and starts heading for the front door.

But in that one small glance I receive, I understand why he's so upset. He looks guilty, and in that moment, it dawns on me. He thinks he took something from me. My lips part in shock.

Is this what Hazel meant when she said things would end badly if I didn't tell Warren about my past? That he would beat himself up over something like this?

Damn it – I should have told him everything when we were hiking; when Carter's name accidentally slipped from my lips. I should have told him that my ex-boyfriend left the world too soon, and that he's the reason I'm so wary when it comes to other guys.

Is it too late, I wonder, to tell him?

Without a second thought, I race after him, ignoring the sound of feet following me. By the time I've burst through the front door, Warren is already getting into the rental vehicle.

"Warren, wait!" I shout.

But it's too late. He's already closed the door and ignited the engine. I watch, feeling the numbness pervade every inch of my body as he backs out of the driveway. Where he's going, I don't know. When he'll be back, I don't know.

This unexpected feeling of helplessness consumes me, and my knees begin to wobble so badly I have to sit down on the steps of the front porch. The first teardrops that trickle down my cheeks are for how guilty I feel about moving onto someone else, but they eventually reform into something else – the disappointment of not being able to remember what the two of us did last night; the unbearable ache I feel in my heart for him; and the anger at myself for not going after him sooner.

Someone sits down beside me on my left, then my right. Without looking up, I know it's Hazel and Julia. Two arms wrap around my shoulders.

"Oh, Nova," Julia says softly. "I'm so sorry. If I'd known it would escalate this far, I wouldn't have gone to that ridiculous movie."

I begin to cry harder. She doesn't understand. She thinks I regret getting drunk with him, spending time with him, and then sleeping with him.

I shake my head through the tears. "No...Julia..." I hiccup. "That's...No..."

Hazel begins to rub my back. "Deep breaths, honey, deep breaths. Come on. You're okay. Everything's going to be okay."

Following her instructions, I take a deep breath. And then another. The tears are still burning my cheeks, but I relax the slightest bit and let my shoulders ease under the arms of my friends.

"You don't understand," I say when my voice isn't shaking as badly. "I can't remember what happened after we got home."

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to will myself into breaking through the blockade the alcohol has thrown upon me. But there's nothing: I can't remember where and how he touched me; how his body felt against mine, with a tangle of emotions driving us over the edge; what we did. There's nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Another tear scalds my cheek, and I look up at the dead road ahead of us. I squeeze my eyes shut again, as if I can will him to come back and talk to me. I need to speak to him. I need to be with him because I love him.

I love him so much, and I can't even remember sleeping with him for the first time. I can barely remember the pub.

There are a lot of facts I can't accumulate from last night, but there is one thing I know: That I don't regret it.

I don't regret sleeping with Warren Ashford.