Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
W illow woke with a groan.
There was a jackhammer going wild in her head, her mouth tasted like a sewer, and she felt like a sponge that had been wrung out and left to get moldy.
She twisted in bed, her eyes still closed.
But at least the pillow was delectable, and the mattress was…delicious. The bedding was soft, and cozy, with a big down comforter, and…
And this was not her bed.
She cracked one eye open, which led to instant regret and another groan. Where was she?
Memories from the night before were coming back slowly and in patches. She remembered one of Margot’s friends saying she could crash. Okay. That was good. So now…what time was it?
A jolt of alarm had both eyes popping open. Shoot. What about lunch?
Not daring to move her pounding head, she pulled her hands free of the neatly tucked covers and patted the bed, looking for her phone.
No luck.
She went to wiggle, but she was really firmly tucked in, and a turn of her head revealed a glass of water and some aspirin beside her.
Huh. How sweet. Someone had really taken care of her last night. She’d have to thank Margot’s friend…if she could remember her name.
Ugh!
But first… “Phone. Must call the inn.”
Wrestling out of her cozy fortress, she groaned, propping her head in her hand and begging the room to stop swimming. If it could just stay still for a second, she’d be able to find her phone and call the inn.
Trying again, she took things more slowly and scanned the nightstand for her phone, then glanced down the bed to the end table she spotted.
Nope. She was phoneless.
And it wasn’t like she could jump out of bed and start rummaging around in this room. She didn’t dare make any more big movements, not with the way her head was pounding and the contents of her stomach were sloshing.
Ugh. What had she been drinking? And…what happened after the dancing portion of the evening? She had a hazy memory of a handsy jerk, but then…
Then she was crying on some guy’s chest?
What the…?
She covered her eyes. How embarrassing.
With a deep breath, she dropped her hand and tried to game-plan. First things first: Find the phone. Call her fam to tell them she was alive, but they’d need to cover lunch. Find Margot’s friend and thank her. Get a ride back to the inn and?—
The door creaked open, and Willow sat up a little straighter, ready to put on a grateful smile and thank?—
Uh… what?
The air in her lungs froze, her eyes bulging as…
Eric walked in.
Eric freakin’ Spencer was standing in this bedroom…staring at her.
And while she should have been screaming bloody murder, instead she found herself wondering just how awful she looked with her bedhead and smeared makeup.
Bad, probably.
Very, very bad.
She reached up and pushed her curls out of her face, her voice all high and breathless. “Eric? What…how…?” She gave her head a little shake.
Bad idea. Very bad idea.
No headshaking, Willow.
Wincing, she rubbed her temples and managed to rasp, “What are you doing here?”
His smile was…
What was that smile?
Oh holy cow, her insides just melted. She’d never seen this smile before. It was almost…bashful?
Was he even capable of that emotion?
This was too bizarre.
What was happening here?
He was scratching his jaw, which sported an uncharacteristic five-o’clock shadow, and he was wearing sweats that hung low and a fitted tee that was way too sexy for anyone’s good.
Willow wet her lips and tried again. “Eric, what are you doing in—” She paused, desperate to conjure up a name, but after an embarrassingly long beat, she gave up. “What are you doing in this house? Why are you here?”
He cocked his head to the side, his lips twitching as he studied her. “Well, I…” He paused to obviously gauge her reaction. “I live here.”
Willow’s mouth popped open, disappointment sharp and evasive as she choked out, “You live with Margot’s friend?” Her voice ended on a squeak, and for some weird reason, she suddenly felt like crying.
“Uh…no.” Eric shook his head, inching a little farther into the room. “I live alone. And this is, uh…this is my house.”
There was a beat.
A silence.
A long pause as she waited for Antony to poke his head out of the closet door and shout, “Gotcha!” and then fill her in on the epic, yearlong prank he’d just enacted.
But no. No Antony.
“Wait…”
She looked around at the classy navy-colored walls, the dark-wood built-in bookshelves, then down at the expensive-looking duvet that was tucked around her like she was a child, and…
And…
Her chest started heaving, breaths punching out of her as she struggled to say something… anything .
In the end, all she could manage was a high-pitched “WHAT?!”