Speaking of shirts, where did his go? Maybe I broke a bone and he ripped his clothes off, Hulk-style, and used them for a tourniquet? Unlikely. Renner wouldn’t sacrifice fashion on my account, even in a medical emergency.
I flex my toes and fingers, ensuring all are still functioning, before rolling over. But instead of being greeted by the cold, hard gym floor, my face presses into something impossibly soft and white, like a cloud. A blanket of some sort.
When my palm indents a cushiony padding, my arm hair stands on end. I’m in a bed. Have I been hospitalized? Am I in some sort of fancy hospital king-size bed for rich people? And if so, why is Renner here too?
I pull myself into a sitting position to get a better look. It’s certainly not a hospital. It appears to be a sunlit bedroom, painted the prettiest shade of robin’s-egg blue. A wide, white, distressed dresser sits on the wall opposite the bed near a bay window. Vacuum lines streak the plush cream carpet.
The blanket is soft against my skin, and I realize I’m no longer wearing my sweatpants and hoodie. Whoever dressed me had some style. I’m in a cute sleep set. One of those fancy, silky tank-and-shorts combos I’ve only seen on television. This is weird.
My mind starts to spitfire possibilities. Did Renner and I drunkenly hook up? No. There’s no way. It’s a Wednesday morning. We weren’t drinking. And I would never, ever skip school to boink, especially with Renner. But why else would we be in bed together?
“Where am I?” I realize I’ve said this aloud when Renner stirs and rolls toward me, his warm arm pressing against mine.
When I shift to put a comfortable distance between us, the mattress creaks and his eyes snap open. At the sight of me, he jolts like I’m a sinister creature from a dark dimension, barrel-rolling off the opposite side of the bed. His body hits the floor with a hard thud.
“Char?” He pops his head up like a gopher in one of those carnival games, and I let out an impassioned shriek.
It’s Renner. Same striking seafoam eyes. Same small scar on his forehead. Same crooked, resting smirk. But it’s not. He’s different. His face is broader somehow. A few new creases line his forehead. And his usually clean-shaven, criminally sharp jaw is specked with . . . facial hair? He has a beard. I didn’t know he could grow a beard.
When he stands at full height, my eyes traitorously follow the light dusting of hair trailing down his sculpted abs and V-line, down to . . . I cover my eyes like they’ve been burned. I just saw Renner’s package. The image will be seared into my retinas forevermore. I need eye bleach ASAP.
I’ve seen Renner’s naked torso enough times at Ollie’s summer parties. I know he has an effortless six-pack. But this chest is broader. Manlier. Like his face.
This can’t be J. T. Renner.
Have I been kidnapped by a murderer who looks remarkably like Renner? Maybe this is his psychotic, secret older brother? I grope for the nearest object I can find. It’s a framed photo on the bedside table.
“Don’t come any closer!” I screech as he rounds the end of the bed. In my mind, I’m channeling some hard-core secret-agent vibes. But in reality, I come across like a cartoon character, swinging a picture frame with rounded, smooth edges like it’s a sword.
Unamused, he swipes the picture from my hand and carelessly tosses it on the bed. “Were you really going to hit me with a picture frame? It’s me. Renner.” His voice—it’s the same. Deep, but with a bit of a lazy, can’t-be-bothered lilt.
I shake my head, but it only heightens the throbbing behind my eyes. “You’re not Renner.” It’s not possible. But somehow, it is. “Why do you look like that?”
He knits his brow. “Why do you look like that?” he demands, taking a gander at my chest. His eyes are basically dinner plates.
My gaze follows his. Holy moly. What were barely B cups are now at least Cs. I take them in my hands to confirm. The flesh spills over the sides of my fingers. Yup. Definitely no longer Bs. Maybe all my prayers for bigger boobs have finally been answered.
I swiftly hoist the duvet over my braless boobs. “Did we . . . um . . . do—”
“Are you asking if we hooked up?” he clarifies.
I nod silently.
He runs a large hand through his messy hair. “No. I mean, I don’t think so? I’d remember that. I’d have to be really wrecked to go there,” he adds, waving a vague hand in my direction.
I should be offended, but the feeling is mutual. And to be honest, I’m comforted that we’re both utterly confused. I grimace at the thought of his naked body on mine. I need a memory wipe, back to factory default. “Is this your house?” I whisper conspiratorially, even though I already know the answer. I’ve been to Renner’s house multiple times over the years. I once took care of a very drunk Kassie in his parents’ bedroom. Unless they did a full remodel in the past few months, this ain’t it.