[ her dad tells her no, which chuck automatically translated to mean green light, go ahead. the literal translation is more along the lines of fuck you old man, you can't tell me what to do, which is basically what she spits in his face before he locks her in the hotel room in new york city and proceeds to attend the low key, high profile conference known as fleet week that was taking place in the hotel lobby below. for about two hours chuck manages to storm and stomp and complain to max the bulldog puppy, then amuse herself with on demand and room service.

but then fuck cheesecake and neverending chick flicks.

she amuses herself with the mini bottles of vodka and whiskey in the minifridge. the expensive bottles that her old man can deal with when they check out, because she's bored and stuck in this room and deserves a little bit of fun. she's not a lightweight, not really, so it takes most of the fridge to get her appropriately tipsy. but appropriately tipsy chuck still thinks she's capable of going swimming in the roof top pool, and dons her two piece and some shorts so she can stumble down the halls of the st. regis hotel with some semblance of decency. and stumble right into some tall wall of american muscle and blondness walking into his hotel room.

and oh the fun she can have. in her rather drunken haze it's not difficult to imitate an american accent after watching two american movies, and it's not hard to shoulder her way into his room. however, lurching into the bathroom and vomiting in the bathtub is hard on both of them, and is going to suck extra hard for her pride when she wakes up practically swaddled on the couch in his room. with a pounding headache. and a vague recollection of two men muttering about finding her owner. fuck.

it doesn't take too much of her hungover concentration to realize whose room she ended up in. the bomber jacket draped over the coffee table drives it home for her, and she hopes against hope that the two queen beds are empty when she sits up. but no. nope. not only does chuck nearly throw up from sitting up too fast, but her heart then also does her the courtesy of trying to jump out of her throat when she spots one tuft of blond hair above the dark red comforter. she should leave. she should get up and leave and go feed max. she should... drink water and pretend this never happened. she should not be creeping around the bed and peering at yancy becket's sleeping, drooling face with equal parts morbid curiosity and hero worship.

especially because she should know her father and expect him to call her cell, to set off the blaring alarm ringtone she set to announce his presence in her cellular vicinity. and of course she didn't put her cell on silent, and of course the pockets of her shorts are too tight to quickly silent it. ]

Fuck, fuck — shit. [ and yes, she answers it; any faux american accent from the night before dropping when she snaps into the receiver: ] What do y'want, old man?