smashed against a royal blue throw pillow.
How much did she drink? Too much, seeing how her tongue felt like it’d been wrapped in cotton socks. And her head... Thinking made the pounding at the back of her skull worse. Damn Delilah and Chloe for sending her that champagne.
“Why? We weren’t the ones filling your glass,” her friend Chloe would say, and sadly, she’d be right. Larrissa did the pouring all by herself. Seven hundred fifty milliliters of champagne and half a bottle of Spanish wine worth. She gagged, contemplating the volume.
Wouldn’t Tom be thrilled to see her now? After all, wasn’t she to blame for everything? Their breakup, his cheating. She challenges me, Larissa. Makes me think about things. All you talk about is the wedding. It’s like you don’t care about anything else.
Apparently he missed the part where planning a wedding was a lot of work. Too busy having deep conversations with the other woman, no doubt.
Letting out a groan, she pushed herself to an upright position and stumbled to the living area, praying the powers that be included an industrial-strength coffeemaker. She still couldn’t believe Delilah and Chloe paid to upgrade her to the Presidential Villa. The place was astounding, albeit filled with way too much sunshine at the moment. One glass wall looked out over the ocean, the other onto the lagoon. The entire villa was a glass box with curtains. Ironic since the resort boasted complete privacy.
Where did she put her sunglasses? She could have sworn she had them on her head when she checked in. Without them, her head was going to explode.
Oomph! She forgot the living room had a sunken conversation area. Missing the step, she lost her balance and pitched forward. Fortunately, her hand managed to catch the edge of the sofa. As her fingers curled around the cushion, a memory made its way into her head. Sad brown eyes with thick lashes that sent odd spiraling sensations down her back. They’d talked about relationships. He said he was a widower. She said she was sorry for his loss and...
And she touched him.
Oh, Lord, please say she did not come on to a complete stranger last night. A quick look at the open wine bottles said it was entirely possible.
A knock on the door sliced her head open. “Room service,” an accented voice called out.
Peering through the peephole, Larissa spied a cart laded with silver serving pieces as well as—heaven help her—another bottle of champagne—and groaned. The wedding day breakfast package. She must have forgotten to cancel.
“For the bride,” the server announced when she opened the door. He very diplomatically pretended not to notice her appearance, but Larissa caught the sideways glance as he wheeled the cart inside. Whatever. No different from the looks she got checking in. Single definitely stuck out at La Joya. Combing her fingers through her hair, she smiled brightly, as if she woke up wearing yesterday’s clothes and smelling of stale wine every morning. Damn, but those sunglasses would definitely come in handy about now.
Dish by dish, the server unveiled the contents of each platter. Fresh strawberries. Whipped cream. Huevos motulenos with plantains and peas. Their aromas mingled together into one fruity, spicy fragrance. Larissa’s stomach rose in her throat.
“Is there coffee?” she interrupted before the man could unveil the final dish, which she was pretty certain would be bacon. The greasy scent would send her right over the edge.
“I can serve myself,” Larissa continued when he reached for the thermal pot.
Her upright quotient was nearing its end, and she didn’t want to waste what little standing ability she had left on some elaborate presentation. Scribbling her room number on the bottom of the bill, she thrust the paper in the man’s hand and hoped the generous tip would balance out her curt behavior.
“Please tell the chef everything looks wonderful.” She swallowed hard to get the words out. “Exactly as advertised.”
“I’m glad you think so,” a new voice replied. Before she could reply, the man from her memories strolled into the room. Tall, dark and way too crisp-looking.
Her vague memories didn’t do him nearly enough justice. Broad shoulders. A hard, lean body. Her fingertips tingled recalling the feel of his torso all too clearly. Especially the way her palm spread against the taut muscles.
It was his face she’d forgotten. Hidden by the distraction of sad eyes was a face marked by character. A strong jaw, a prominent nose. Skin the color of burnished gold. It was a rugged, masculine face, carved to capture both attention and respect.
He greeted her with a polite nod. “Buenos dias, Señorita Boyd.”
Dammit, she’d forgotten his name. He wasn’t the kind of man a person forgot, either. Maybe if she smiled brightly enough, she could fake her way through the conversation until it came to her. “Buenos dias. How are you doing this morning?”
“I am fine, señorita. A more important question is, how are you?”
“Right as rain,” she lied.
He arched his brow, proof she wasn’t fooling anyone, but chose to turn his attention to the room service cart. Larissa couldn’t help but notice the server’s nervousness regarding the inspection. Señor Whoever-He-Was must run a tight ship.
“You’re having the bridal breakfast, I see,” he said finally.
“Yes, I am.”
“Interesting choice. Did you mean to?”
An odd question, although she’d been kicking herself over its appearance herself. She waited until he’d dismissed the server before asking, “What do you mean?”
“Only that considering your circumstances, I’m surprised you’re interested in having the full bridal morning experience.”
Was he referring to her hangover or the fact she was no longer a bride? His diplomatic description made it hard to tell.
He uncovered the bacon. A big mistake. Larissa started to gag.
“I’m looking forward to it,” she replied, swallowing her stomach back into place. Easier than swallowing her pride, apparently. “No sense letting a good meal go to waste.”
“I applaud your attitude. Personally, I wouldn’t be able to look at food, let alone eat so much.”
Okay, so they were talking about her hangover. “I have an iron stomach.”
Again, he raised his brow, unconvinced. They both knew she hammered herself into oblivion last night. Only a fool would insist on pretending otherwise. Call her a fool then. And would have to salvage pride where she could. Especially considering her only clear memory from last night involved falling against that hard, lean chest.
“You have a far better constitution than I do,” he remarked. “Cream and sugar? Or do you prefer your coffee black?”
What she would prefer would be if he—and the breakfast cart—left her alone so she could collapse. “Black, please.”
“I have to warn you, Mexican coffee is brewed stronger than American. Many of our guests are taken by surprise.”
“I’m
