Tequila + your best friend + your bedroom = um, whoopsie?

 

Don’t sleep with your best friend.

Take it from me. I did it. And it was awful.

I-wish-the-tequila-made-me-forget kind of bad.

​

The problem is, Luke has forgotten. He swears that he can’t remember a thing about that night beyond the trays of tequila shots being set on the tables.

​

Except I can’t forget. I can’t forget how good his hands felt until I fell over and hit my hip on the dresser, and I sure as hell can’t forget the entire two minutes of tap-tap-squirt.

​

Awkward. Embarrassing. And the new subject of a couple of dirty lucid dreams.

​

But I have no intention of telling him what we did. Nothing good comes from telling your best friend he’s the worst guy you’ve ever slept with.

​

Which makes the tequila on my birthday a very, very bad idea…