Knocked Up by My Nemesis

Waking up hungover next to my arch-nemesis – the city's most notorious fuckboy? Worst. Morning. Ever. I handled the walk of shame with icy dignity, but fate had a bigger curveball: one month later, two pink lines.

My baby. My rules. His involvement? Zero.

My flawless plan hit a snag when morning sickness ambushed me in the office restroom. He walked in. His eyes locked onto my still-flat stomach, darkening with something dangerous. Before I could blink, he had me pinned against the cold tile wall.

"Who's the father?" he growled.

I met his glare with a frosty smirk. "Wouldn't you like to know? Definitely not you."

Then it happened: a hot tear hit my neck. His voice cracked, raw and desperate. "Don't... don't leave me. Please."

Me: ...Dude. Seriously? THIS IS YOURS!

– The Morning After

“Don’t scream,” came a groggy voice beside me.

I froze.

My eyes cracked open. Sunlight stabbed through unfamiliar blinds, scattering gold across the cedar-paneled ceiling. I was in Mia’s guestroom. Tequila. Karaoke. The bar. My head throbbed like a jackhammer on concrete.

The bed dipped.

I turned—too fast—and groaned.

Andrew Drake blinked at me, hair mussed, shirtless, and utterly unfazed. “Well, this is new.”

I yanked the sheet up to my collarbone. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’d ask you the same,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “But judging by the underwear situation… we may already know.”

“No. No, no. This didn’t happen.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “You mean the part where you begged me to sing Bon Jovi and then dared me to out-drink you?”

“That’s not what I—God.”

I threw off the covers, found my bra tangled in a lamp, and my dress crumpled on a chair. My heels were in separate corners of the room like casualties of war.

He leaned back, arms crossed behind his head like a smug god. “At least tell me I was decent. Or was it just checklist sex with the project manager from hell?”

We’d spent our childhood locked in friendly warfare—science fairs, spelling bees, even soccer try‑outs.

Andrew Drake was the rival who pushed every button I had and sharpened every edge I owned.

So waking up next to him felt less like fate and more like an impossible tie‑breaker neither of us had planned.

I yanked my dress over my head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He smirked. “So I’ve been told. By you. Many, many times.”

“Fine,” I hissed. “Let’s just pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Pretend what didn’t happen?” he teased, sitting up. “You moaning my name in E minor?”

I glared. “You’re disgusting.”

He stood, bare-chested and infuriatingly unbothered. “You’re the one who kissed me first.”

“I was drunk.”

“So was I. But we still danced. Remember that?” His tone dropped, suddenly sincere. “You sang off-key. I spun you. You didn’t push me away.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

We dressed in silence, buttoning guilt and awkwardness into place.

At the doorway, he paused. “So… this stays between us?”

“Obviously.”