Here is the prologue, as it is written currently, from my novel Quickenings of which I shared an excerpt that happens later in the story.
Somewhere close by, birds are starting to sing. This specific time of day is familiar to her, waiting half-asleep for the shrill of her alarm to catapult her into a long shower and an even longer work day.
Her headache, on the other hand, is unfamiliar—a repercussion of cocktails from the night before. It is unfamiliar because Jane Hathaway was not usually a drinker. Jane had begun drinking to celebrate her freedom from her ex-boyfriend, but continued toasting to her fear of her lonely future.
Eyes closed still, Jane notices for the first time that something was not right. There is a rustling of sheets next to her, again, very unwelcome.
“Must be the dog,” she thinks. Even though Jane did not have a dog herself, she had a vague memory of one from the night before.
Jane opens her eyes and shot to sitting when a masculine groan, animalistic even, but very unlike the four-legged variety sounds next to her. The man in bed with her is an attractive man with a shadowed profile. He hugs a pillow and Jane fought the urge to scream. How had this man ended up in her place? This is her first logical thought until she realizes the inevitable.
Jane is not in her apartment. She is not in her bed, and after looking under the comforter, Jane realized that she isn’t even in her pants.
With the initial panic subsiding to a dull headache, Jane studies the man more closely and realizes with relief that he is familiar. His eyes, although closed, are burned in her memory as being intensely bright blue. His mouth, twisted in a frown, remindes her of the whisker burn on her face and well, other body parts.
Jane refuses to think of his name and carefully yet quickly disentangled her limbs from his without waking him. She pulls a corner of the soft blue bed sheet over her body so she could pull on her dowdy underwear and jeans. She can’t find her bra, so she gives up and pulls her green cashmere sweater over her mussed hair— a color stuck between brown and blonde as if it can’t make up its mind.
She scrawls her name and number on the back of a bank statement and trips her way out of the apartment. Jane stubs her pointy stiletto on a dresser and an avalanche of papers and cufflinks toppled. Her world is momentarily shaken up and she feels like she is inside a snow globe.
But the stranger is a sound sleeper.