Fields' Guide to Abduction - - (best sales books of all time txt) 📗

If Chariss said it once, she said it a thousand times. “It’s a good thing you don’t want to be an actress. The only thing you’re fit for is screw-ball comedies and they’re dead.”

Those words ran through my head.

Not the actress part. I didn’t want to be an actress. That whole dive into real emotions and share them with the world thing? Not for me.

But the screwball comedy part? Chariss had a point. My life was a screwball comedy.

How else to explain my current dilemma?

I was naked and locked in a bathroom. A man I’d sworn never to speak to again slept on the other side of the door.

I closed my eyes and saw myself as Kate Hudson which would make him Matthew McConaughey. He’d like the sexy part of that comparison. Even with my eyes closed I saw his slow grin—felt his slow grin. All the way to my toes.

Never again!

Never.

Today was the start of a new life.

No more drinking. No more clubs. No more sexy, dangerous men who were bad for me.

Especially not the one in the bedroom.

I crossed my heart, hoped to die (that might actually be happening—my head hurt that badly), and rested my forehead against the locked door.

What did I drink last night? I had vague recollections of a bar. Dark pulsing lights. Dark pulsing music. Test tubes filled with something sweet. The man.

The sexy, dangerous man.

Jake.

How many times could one woman make the same mistake? Apparently, a zillion.

Or at least three.

Why hadn’t I grabbed my phone before my mad dash to the bathroom?

Screwball comedy. It was the only answer.

I lurched (Frankenstein, but less graceful) to the sink, turned on the tap, and drank deeply. Straight from the faucet. My mouth wasn’t just dry. Dry would have felt like a spring shower compared to the arid wasteland behind my gums. I drank till my stomach sloshed then I ran my tongue over my teeth.

Moss.

Where the hell was the toothpaste? Not on the counter. Not in any obvious place. I rubbed a wet finger against my teeth. Better than nothing. Slightly. Then I held a hand in front of my mouth, exhaled, and sniffed.

Ugh. If I wanted to get rid of Jake once and for all, breathing on him would do the trick. How was it even possible for breath to smell that bad?

I needed toothpaste and something—anything—for my headache.

Where?

The whole damned bathroom was white marble and mirrors (I would not look in those mirrors—would not). No drawers. No medicine cabinets. No razor or hairbrush or deodorant. No Ambien or Xanax or even Excedrin. Just white marble and a single bar of soap.

I splashed water around my eyes, reached for the soap, and sniffed. Jo Malone. Jake’s favorite.

The man hadn’t brought a toothbrush but he remembered his precious soap.

The scents of lime, basil and mandarin did nothing for the roiling in my stomach but I washed my hands and face. After I rinsed, the scents—his scents—lingered.

The towel I used was über-fluffy. Hotel fluffy.

A hotel?

Please, no. I squeezed my eyes closed and broke out in a tequila-scented sweat.

A walk of shame through a hotel lobby was more than I could bear. And if anyone took a picture… I rested my palms on the edge of the counter, opened my