Chapter Eleven Hangover
HADLEY
I wake up slowly, awareness creeping in through the dull throb behind my eyes. The first thing I notice isn't the headache. It’s the light. The sharp, unforgiving morning light, cutting through the gap in the heavy, floor-to-ceiling drapes and landing directly across my face.
I groan, pressing my face deeper into the pillow. The texture is all wrong. It isn't the soft cotton of my bedsheets. It’s the slightly textured, heavy weave of the throw pillow from the living room.
The realization hits me with a jolt. My stomach does a nauseous flip. I’m not in my bedroom.
I’m on the couch. I’m still wearing the clothes I went out in last night.
Memory comes back in disjointed, blurry fragments. The loud, pulsing heat of the bar. The cold, crisp air of the parking lot. A cab ride. The feeling of being carried by large, steady hands. The bathroom. Being sick.
I stay still for a long second, my face buried in the cream-colored cushion, waiting for the room to stop its slow, rhythmic spinning.
My mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, and a faint, lingering nausea sits right at the base of my throat, making me hesitate before I even think about moving.
I force my eyes open, squinting against the brightness of the apartment. I’m alone, but the space feels different. There’s a lingering sense of presence…a memory of a low, gravelly voice telling me to drink water.
Slowly, I peel my face away from the pillow, the dull throb in my temples intensifying with the movement.
“Brilliant,” I mutter into the fabric, my voice rough. “Fucking brilliant, Hadley.”
How am I going to be able to face anyone again? My stomach churns as I remember the taste of the beer, and then I think of Julian.
My stomach twists again, and this time it has nothing to do with being sick.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing the heel of my hand against my forehead as if I can physically hold the memories back. It doesn’t work, and they come flooding to the forefront of my mind anyway.
Julian was standing beside me, steadying me as he walked me to his car. He was so cool and calm, not making a big deal out of the situation. He brought me back to my place, gave me water, and even…
I groan again. He even cleaned up my vomit.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, mortified.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. I went to a bar. A real bar, not some carefully supervised, polite gathering where everything is controlled and quiet and predictable.
I let myself get out of control. Three beers, and I was drunk like a fucking rookie.
God, I must have seemed like such a child to everyone last night.
It’s not like I couldn’t have gone out to the pubs or the clubs while I was in England.
I just…didn’t. It never really appealed to me.
Partly because I didn’t want to, and partly because I knew the exact brand of hell my dad would rain down on me if he ever found out I was wasting my academic time on something so reckless.
But a bigger part of it was that I didn’t have anyone to go out with. I didn’t make any real friends during my semesters in London. I spent my entire time over there isolated in a sea of unfamiliar faces, retreating into my shell and hiding behind my textbooks.
This group of Night Hawks girls is different.
It’s not like they pressured me into overdoing it at the bar.
None of them would ever do that. It’s just that, for the first time in years, I feel comfortable enough around a group of people to finally let my guard down, to try new things, and to actually be myself.
I drank too much because I felt safe, knowing that they genuinely care about me.
Lainey cares about me just as much, of course, but we haven’t had a chance to live in the same place for a long time.
When my dad moved us to Colorado Springs in the middle of my high school years to launch his sports agency and law firm, I had no choice but to pack up and follow him.
Before that cross-country move, Lainey and I were inseparable.
We were next-door neighbors who shared everything.
But years of long-distance friendship over FaceTime can only do so much, and without her around to pull me out of my shell, I had forgotten how to just be a normal girl.
Finding that freedom with the girls last night had felt amazing, but that didn't mean I wanted to embarrass myself.
A hot, stinging wave of humiliation washes over me, making me press my face back into the sectional cushion.
I squeeze my eyes shut as the vivid, horrifying memory of the bathroom floor flashes behind my eyelids.
Out of all the people to witness my total lack of composure, it had to be Julian.
He's the one who had to hold my hair and clean up after me.
The fact that he cared for me so tenderly makes my heart ache with a terrifying intensity, but the absolute shame of him seeing me at my worst makes me want to dissolve right into this couch.
I push myself upright slowly, the room tilting and making me pause.
“Okay,” I murmur. “We’re going to move very carefully today.”
I swing my legs over the side of the couch, dragging a hand through my hair as I try to piece everything together properly.
I press my hand to my face, groaning.
Julian was there for every moment of it.
There’s something uniquely humiliating about that realization. Of all the people to see me like that, why’d it have to be him? He’s so contained and controlled. He seems to have his shit together. I must have seemed like such a mess.
A complete, inexperienced, couldn’t-even-handle-three-beers mess.
“Fantastic,” I mutter.
Looking up, I find a glass of water and a bottle of painkillers sitting on the coffee table. My heart does a little flutter. Did Julian leave those for me?
I release a soft breath and push myself to stand, ignoring the slight protest from my head, and start toward the bathroom. I need a shower. Hopefully it will make me feel remotely human again and wash off the lingering embarrassment crawling under my skin.
I barely make it two steps before there’s a knock at the door. I freeze. Who the heck could that be? For a moment, I consider ignoring it, not really feeling up to being around people at the moment, but there’s another knock. Releasing a long sigh, I turn for the door.
“Coming,” I call out, my voice cracking.
I pull the door open, and my entire body goes rigid, my heart executing a violent, stuttering leap against my ribs.
Julian stands in the doorway, and for a second, I can’t even process the grocery bags in his arms because the sheer, physical presence of him is enough to knock the breath out of my lungs.
He’s wearing a fitted black t-shirt that clings to the massive breadth of his shoulders, the fabric straining across his chest in a way that makes my mind instantly, traitorously flash back to the feel of those muscles under my palms when we danced at Rylee and Zander’s wedding.
His dark, curly hair is a bit wilder than usual, pulled up into a half-bun, and his beard is perfectly groomed against the sharp line of his jaw.
He looks rugged, solid, and so unfairly attractive that it actually hurts to look at him.
Even with a headache pounding behind my eyes, I can't stop the sudden, intrusive thought of how easily those large arms could pin me against this doorframe.
Julian lifts the bags, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face.
“Figured you might need food,” he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates right through the floorboards and straight into my core. “And maybe some caffeine before your brain explodes.”
I blink at him, my mouth open, my brain struggling to coordinate a response that doesn't involve me just staring at the way his biceps flex under the weight of the paper bags. He looks like a grizzly bear who just wandered out of the mountains and into my over-sanitized, expensive hallway, and the contrast is so overwhelming I’m surprised I haven't tripped over my own feet yet.
"I...you're here," I manage to squeak out, my face heating up as his dark brown eyes track the movement of my lips.
"I'm here," he echoes, his smirk widening as he waits for me to move out of the way. "You gonna let me in?"
“You…brought groceries?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Thought I’d make breakfast.”
I stare at him, dumbstruck.
I can hardly believe he’s back already after everything that happened last night.
“Oh,” I murmur, my cheeks heating. I struggle not to think of last night, when I was bent over the toilet, and he was holding my hair back. “Um…okay.”
I step back enough to let his massive frame pass through the door. As he brushes past me, the crisp scent of the morning air clings to him, mixed with his distinct cedar-and-leather warmth. It floods my senses, momentarily drowning out the stale, lingering taste of last night.
Julian doesn’t just walk in, however. The second he clears the threshold, he halts, shifting the heavy grocery bags to one arm with effortless strength so he can turn his full attention to me.
His dark brown eyes narrow, performing a slow, deliberate sweep down my entire body.
It’s an intense, heavy assessment that makes my skin tingle.
He isn't just checking me out this time. He’s checking on me.
His gaze lingers on the dark circles under my eyes, the slight tremble in my fingers, and the way I’m leaning against the wall for support.
He reads the exact level of my misery in a single second, his brow furrowing with a flash of gruff concern.
Can he tell the painkillers haven't kicked in yet?
Before I can say anything, his eyes snap past me to the heavy oak coffee table in the living room. He scans the surface, verifying that the glass he filled for me last night is empty. Seemingly satisfied that I at least followed his unspoken orders, his gaze snaps back to mine.
“Go shower,” he orders as he turns and heads toward the kitchen. “You look like hell, sweetheart.”
The word sweetheart sends a delicious, traitorous shiver straight down my spine. My eyes lock onto the broad expanse of his back and the way his t-shirt stretches tight over his shoulder blades as he walks away.
I want to curl up into a ball and let the floor swallow me whole. I huff a quiet laugh despite myself, shutting the door behind him.
“Okay,” I call after him, and make my way to the bathroom as told.