New Orleans by Cat Johnson - Read Online
New Orleans
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When I agreed to be my best friend’s maid of honor, I thought it would be fun. Maybe I’d even meet a nice, single guy at the reception. But now the bride is missing, I have the hang over from hell and it seems I may have accidentally had sex with the groom last night while pretending to be a stripper to spy on him at his bachelor party... Or maybe I didn’t.

It’s hard to tell since I can’t remember much past drinking that last Hurricane on Bourbon Street. There’s also this matter of the groom’s identical twin brother and the fact they have a habit of switching places.

I do know one thing, nothing is what it seems in New Orleans. Anything can happen...and it usually does.

Published: Cat Johnson on
ISBN: 9781476134048
List price: $0.99
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New Orleans - Cat Johnson

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Page 1 of 1

JOHNSON

NEW ORLEANS

Cat Johnson

Copyright © 2012 by CAT JOHNSON

All Rights Reserved

SMASHWORDS EDITION

License Statement

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to www.catjohnson.net to find locations to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

CHAPTER 1: The Morning After

It happened in stages. First came just a tiny glimmer of consciousness. That’s when I realized I was awake, but not much else. I knew this was the good part, because things would only go downhill from here.

I, Rose Thayer, was good and hung over. Perhaps I was still drunk. Who could tell for sure? Certainly not me in my state. The problem was, I didn’t remember drinking enough to make me feel like this. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember much of anything at all.

Either way, things weren’t good. That realization hit when I started to feel things. My mouth and throat seemed as dry as a bag of cotton balls. Unfortunately, since I’d graduated from college only a couple of years ago, this sensation wasn’t at all new to me. I’d suffered through the morning after in the past.

Yes, I’d been down this road before. I knew that should I attempt to move to get and then drink the water I craved, I’d be sorry because next would come the headache. Pain equivalent to having a screwdriver stabbed into my brain. The headache from hell would sometimes be accompanied by dizziness, which was always joined by nausea—reason number two I wasn’t about to risk drinking anything.

So instead I stayed right where I was, not quite playing dead but sure doing a good imitation. I breathed nice and slow, shallow so I wouldn’t jar anything or anger the hangover gods. Maybe I’d fall back to sleep. That would be good. Riding out the rest of this hangover in an unconscious state seemed like a pretty damned good idea to me right now.

But as always happens, I started to think.

What had I done last night? It must have been a pretty kick ass time that landed me in this predicament this morning. Another thought tickled my consciousness—where was I, how had I gotten here and who else was here with me? Okay, perhaps those should have been my first thoughts, but I was running a bit slow in the brain department so I decided to give myself a pass.

I steeled my nerves for both the pain and the possible shock and cracked one eyelid partially open. A smoke detector blinked merrily next to a sprinkler head on the ceiling above me. Okay, good sign. It seemed as if I’d actually made it back to the hotel. I wiggled a fingertip and felt the telltale scratch of a polyester bedspread beneath my nail. Definitely hotel grade bedding.

I began to piece together the shattered remnants of my memory. I was in New Orleans. I’d flown in yesterday for my best friend from college’s wedding this weekend. Last night had been her bachelorette party—which explained a lot of my condition now.

I managed to lift my head enough to glance down at my bottom half and not vomit. One look at the jeans and heels I still wore indicated I’d passed out in my clothes on top of the covers. Fine with me. I was happy to be here at all. Though did my purse and wallet arrive with me or would I be calling to cancel my credit card when I could finally get vertical?

As the acid backed up my throat and added to the already foul taste in my mouth, I realized right now I couldn’t care less if my credit card were winging its way