The first thing Rachael noticed was the headache—a throbbing, merciless beast that felt like it had taken up permanent residence behind her eyeballs. The second thing was the unfamiliar weight between her legs. Her eyes snapped open, blinking against the harsh morning light filtering through the gaudy hotel curtains. She was in a room that reeked of cheap vodka and regret, the kind of place where hen weekends went to die. And then, with a jolt of pure, unadulterated horror, she realized she wasn’t alone.
Lying beside her, sprawled out like a cat in the sun, was Niamh bloody O’Connor. Niamh, with her tousled black hair and the kind of effortless beauty that made Rachael want to punch a wall. Niamh, who had been the subject of every whispered rumor back in secondary school. Niamh, who was supposedly a full-blown, card-carrying lesbian. And Rachael—staunchly straight, thank you very much—was naked. Stark, mortifyingly naked. In bed. With her.
“Oh, sweet Jesus, no,” Rachael hissed under her breath, her voice a panicked whisper as her gaze darted downward. There, strapped to her hips like some kind of cruel cosmic joke, was a bright purple strap-on dildo. Her stomach lurched. “What the actual hell?”
Her mind raced, a chaotic blur of half-formed memories from the night before. Shots. So many shots. A dance floor sticky with spilled drinks. Laughter. And… Niamh. Niamh’s sly grin as she’d leaned in close during some ridiculous drinking game, her breath hot against Rachael’s ear as she’d purred something about “trying new things.” Had Rachael laughed? Had she… reciprocated? No. No way. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
She glanced at Niamh again, who was still blissfully asleep, one arm flung over her head, lips slightly parted. Even in sleep, she looked smug. Rachael’s skin crawled with a mix of revulsion and something she refused to name. She had to get out of here. Now.
With the grace of a drunk toddler, Rachael rolled out of bed, clutching the sheet to her chest as if it could shield her from the reality of the situation. The strap-on bobbed awkwardly as she moved, and she nearly screamed in frustration. “This is not happening. This is NOT happening,” she muttered, tiptoeing toward the bathroom like a thief in the night. The door clicked shut behind her, and she sagged against it, her breath ragged.
Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. Her mascara was smeared, her hair a bird’s nest, and the purple monstrosity around her waist looked like something out of a fever dream. “How do you even get this thing off?” she grumbled, fumbling with the straps. Her fingers slipped, and the whole contraption twisted, making her wince. “Oh, come on! I’m not a bloody engineer!”
She could just imagine the cackling if her mates downstairs caught wind of this. Sarah, with her hyena laugh, would never let her live it down. “Oi, Rach, didn’t know you were packing heat!” she’d screech, and the whole hen party would dissolve into hysterics. Rachael’s face burned at the thought. No. She’d rather die than let that happen.
After a wrestling match that left her red-faced and swearing, she finally freed herself from the offending accessory, shoving it into the bottom of the bathroom bin with a shudder. A quick, scalding shower did little to wash away the shame, but at least she felt marginally human again. Dressed in last night’s crumpled clothes, she crept back into the room, holding her breath as she eyed Niamh. Still asleep. Thank God.
Grabbing her purse, Rachael slipped out the door, her heart hammering as she made her way to the hotel’s breakfast buffet. The hen party was already in full swing, a cacophony of hungover groans and raucous laughter. Sarah spotted her first, waving a piece of toast like a flag.
“There she is! The queen of last night’s chaos!” Sarah crowed, her grin wide and wicked. “Where’d you disappear to, Rach? Thought we’d have to send out a search party.”
Rachael forced a laugh, sliding into a seat as far from the door as possible. “Just… overslept. You lot are animals. I’m never drinking again.”
“Oh, please,” piped up Chloe, the bride-to-be, her tiara still perched crookedly on her head. “You were the one leading the charge on those tequila slammers. Don’t play innocent now. Spill—did you pull last night, or what?”
Rachael’s stomach dropped. “What? No! I—I was just knackered. Passed out. End of story.” Her voice was too sharp, too defensive, and she knew it. She shoved a piece of bacon into her mouth to avoid further questioning, her mind still upstairs in that cursed room.
As if on cue, the door to the dining area swung open, and in sauntered Niamh. She looked infuriatingly fresh, her leather jacket slung over one shoulder, her dark eyes scanning the room with a predator’s ease. Rachael’s fork froze halfway to her mouth as Niamh’s gaze landed on her, a slow, knowing smirk curling her lips.
“Well, well,” Niamh drawled, her voice low and teasing as she approached the table. “If it isn’t Rachael, the life of the party. Sleep well, did we?”
The table erupted into snickers, and Rachael felt her face flame. “Fine,” she snapped, her tone icy. “And you can wipe that smug look off your face, O’Connor. I don’t know what you’re implying, but I’m not interested.”
Niamh raised an eyebrow, unfazed, as she pulled out a chair directly across from Rachael. “Oh, I’m not implying anything, love. Just making conversation. But if you’ve got something to get off your chest…” She let the sentence hang, her eyes glinting with mischief as she sipped her coffee.
Rachael’s grip on her fork tightened. This woman was insufferable. “I’ve got nothing to say to you,” she shot back, her voice dripping with venom. “And I’d appreciate it if you kept your little comments to yourself. I’m here for Chloe, not for… whatever this is.”
“Whatever this is,” Niamh echoed, her smirk widening. “Relax, Rachael. I’m not gonna bite. Unless you ask nicely, of course.”
The table burst into laughter again, and Rachael wanted to sink through the floor. She glared at Niamh, her mind screaming with denial. There was no way she’d done anything with her last night. No way she’d enjoyed it. She was straight. Always had been, always would be. And yet, as Niamh leaned back in her chair, all confidence and sharp edges, Rachael felt an unwelcome flicker of something she couldn’t name. Something that made her skin prickle and her pulse quicken.
She shoved the thought down, hard. Today was going to be a gauntlet of hen party nonsense—pub crawls, embarrassing games, the works—and she’d be damned if she let Niamh O’Connor get under her skin. She’d avoid her at all costs. She had to. Because the alternative—acknowledging whatever the hell had happened last night—was not an option.
“Pass the jam,” she barked at Sarah, desperate to change the subject. But as Niamh’s knowing gaze lingered on her, Rachael knew she was in for a long, torturous day.
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