Something hard hit my head last night, putting me into such a deep sleep, I almost forget that I have a test at eight in the morning. A big one. One that the professor won't curve. And I'm not prepared.

As though called upon by the testing gods, my eyes shoot open, and the brightness from a large window to my right nearly blinds me. I have to blink to adjust my eyes to the light, and I'm almost immediately met with the strange scent combination of roses and fabric softener. My head is heavy as I take in the surroundings of the room, but nothing looks familiar. The relevance of the test slips from my mind as I blink at the unfamiliar space.

Did I drink last night? No, surely I didn't—

Oh shit.

No, no, no, no, no. This isn't my room.

My normally stable heart picks up its pace as I glance around the large bedroom. Is this some fancy hotel? The ceilings are higher than any I've ever seen, the walls are painted a shade of cold gray, and the only light is streaming in from the window. I squint my eyes at the mounted candelabras spaced equally two-thirds up each wall, at each tall white candle's wick that is unlit. Another sweep around the room, and I spot a small round table and two chairs, but no vase of flowers to source the putrid smell of roses.

Confused, I slide back into the headboard of the largest bed I've ever been in and take in the ornate covers of the thick duvet. Soft as silk, but thick. I'm not a bed expert or anything, but I know this is better quality than my twin bed duvet whose stuffing curdles when I wash it. A lot better. Surely this is a hotel. But why am I here?

Why does my head hurt so much, as though I drank 'til I reached my limit the night before? The last thing I remember...

The book!

My hands frantically toss the blanket around, hoping the red leather book will resurface somewhere, but instead of the book, something else appears.

Shit!

I quickly cover the sleeping blonde woman before I can register her naked body curving against the soft mattress.

Gah, too late. It's not leaving my memory anytime soon.

My head goes hot, my ears go fuzzy.

What the hell is going on?!

Gulping, I roll off the unoccupied side of the bed, and cold air rushes over me. My jaw stiffens. There's no way in hell I, too, am not wearing any clothing, is there?

I stand and my skin prickles, but I dare not look down.

I am one hundred percent naked.

And my clothing...

I look around everywhere, eyes darting to the (one, two, three, four, five...) six corners of the room. A six-cornered room?

Dumbfounded, I spot a pile of dark clothing tossed against a burgundy dresser. Next to it is a large pile of yellow; maybe some kind of tent? I can't remember for the life of me what I was wearing yesterday, but I'm sure they aren't my clothes.

I pick the garments up. The quality is obvious—mine and Liv's dad played pro golf and wore similar Italian fabrics. So these are definitely not mine.

I shake the thought from my head, desperate to cover myself. I tug the black slacks over my muscled legs, pull on a white button-up shirt, and tiptoe to the large glass double doors at the far end of the room, careful not to wake the stranger still slumbering in the foreign bed.

When I push the doors open, a small man with a huge curly mustache and a combover startles, then gives me a once-over. He's wearing one of those classic butler outfits. Did I somehow get dragged into a rich girl's house? Or is this the Davenport Hotel? I always heard it was extravagant but this is next level. This has to be a prank. I'll keep an eye out for cameras.

"Sleep well?" he asks in a screechy voice, like a bird being strangled. His expression is calm, though, which makes it even weirder.

"Uh. Yeah, sure. Where's the uh. Where's the bathroom?"

The little man's dark eyebrows hover over his hazel eyes as though fly swatters aiming at two unruly bugs.

"Are you alright, my liege?" Genuine concern drenches his uppity English accent.

I look incredulously at him. Honestly, do I look fine? I'd like to know. Give me a mirror. I need to know if I've got puffy lips from drinking. I'm kind of a little allergic to alcohol, which makes my face swell, and usually puts me into a bit of a coma afterward. Almost died once, after a frat party. Liv had to take me to the ER at three in the morning. And before you ask, yes, it was totally worth it.

"Yes, quite fine," I say, mocking his accent. Strangely, this seems to put him at ease.

"The toilet is in its usual place: down the corridor and on the right." He gestures with white gloves down the hall and bows as I rush past him.

I walk along the walls that are covered in Victorian paintings. Ones with men wearing prissy ruffled shirts and strange hair accessories and... lipstick? My feet stop at a portrait of a woman grasping a branch with her foot, holding an enormous spoon in her right hand, and biting an apple aggressively in her mouth.

That's... not normal, is it?

I'm reluctant to move past the strange piece, but I'm dying to know what brought me to this very unfamiliar place. Seeing my hangover face will clear this up, hopefully.

Wait... did someone drug me and fly me to England, then force me to sleep with a young blonde woman?

A-and I don't even remember it?!

Oh hell no. That's lower than low.

Also, why would someone do that?

I find the tall wood door on the right and crank the handle down. The smell of roses bursts from within, so potent I swear I can almost see the particles in the air.

The bathroom is decorated with marbled countertops and tall gold vases filled with bunches of luscious red roses, so many that they look like clumps of blood cells rather than pretty bouquets. A lone porcelain throne with a fancy dangly flusher above it sits at the far end of the bathroom, and a classic horror movie bathtub is beside it.

I turn to the long gilded mirror that dashes along half the length of the large bathroom.

What. The actual. Hell.

In disbelief, I rush to the counter and press my palms to the mirror to make sure what I'm seeing isn't an illusion.

A pale-skinned, blond man with dazzling reddish brown orbs gazes back at me. His mouth is tilted in an alluring smirk, denting one of his eyes with the smallest of dimples. Perfectly straight, white teeth sparkle in the soft light from the candles that flicker on their mounted stands. The only thing amiss is his hastily buttoned white shirt and a slight brush of pink over his cheeks.

I tap on the glass.

The man copies my movement. I squint my eyes. He squints his, too.

"Bastard! What kind of game are you playing?" I ask angrily, backing away from the mirror.

The man's mouth moves at the same time mine does, but he doesn't reply.

A knock comes at the door, and my attention shifts to the knob. My heart thuds in my chest as I wait for whoever's playing this trick on me to reveal himself.

The small butler man's screechy voice is muffled behind the thick wood.

"Duke Audrey, are you sure you're alright?"

Au...drey?

Duke Audrey?

Why does that name sound so familiar?

I turn to the toilet, which is still very vacant. To my utter confusion and dismay, there's no one else in here besides me.

Is he... is he talking to me? No way.

With a gulp, I turn to the mirror again. I squint at my reflection, and he squints back with fervor. I raise my right arm, then my left. He copies.

Then I bounce from one foot to the other, curling my arms inward, one over my head and one under my armpit.

I shriek like a monkey, making sure to make a variety of facial expressions to see if he can keep up.

The door cracks open mid "oo oo aa aa" and the small man's eyes widen.

I immediately stop my charade, still unsure of what to think of the man in the mirror. He's too fast. And his good looks intimidate me.

"Something is clearly not right," the man says, his tone uneven. His light green eyes reflect the soft candlelight.

Clearing my throat, I stand. The man in the mirror does so as well. I keep an eye on him out of my peripheral.

The mustached man lowers his voice to a whistly whisper. "Theodore, what has gotten into you?"

I look around once more. Seeing no one, I blink at him. "Who?"

Without warning, he grabs me by the jaw and spins my head back to the mirror. Suddenly, the butler man's reflection is there as well, grabbing the blond man's...chin...

Oh. Shit.

Sorry, I know I keep saying that, but for real, what gives?!

I close my eyes shut briefly to process. The man in the mirror isn't me... but is it possible that I... am him?

"Theodore Audrey, Duke of Wafful?" I ask flatly, hoping I'm not butchering the name of the kingdom. I'm also hedging my bets on this being that stupid romance novel I read... somehow...

When I open my eyes, the little man releases me with a relieved expression. "You must've had a nightmare, I'm afraid. Would you like me to wake Lady Annalise? I'm sure she'd love to join you for breakfast, my liege."

Annalise De Amour. Lady of... something? A daughter of a baron maybe? Definitely blonde, I remember that.

I shake the thought from my head and try to get things straightened out. My gaze rests on the worried butler man.

He looks a little shaken. Like he's afraid I'll shank him out of nowhere or something.

His reaction practically confirms the fact that the man he's talking to has had a massive personality change overnight. Which can only mean...

I... I've totally become that bastard duke in Liv's cringey romance novel, haven't I?