Chapter 17 Norah
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Norah
I wake up to a dull pounding at the back of my skull, every movement sending sparks of pain shooting through my temples.
My eyes flutter open, blurry at first, and I blink against the morning light sneaking in through the blinds. The bed feels too cold and too big, the sheets clinging awkwardly to me, and then my gaze catches the shape at the foot of the bed.
Holy shit.
There’s a man here. Shirtless. Jeans. Muscles I’ve never actually seen in the flesh, broad shoulders, arms strong enough to make me feel like a child.
Dark hair messy across his forehead, a beard I just want to touch, a scent of pine lingering in the air. And me… me?
Naked except for my panties. My heart does that ridiculous flip that makes me feel like I might combust.
Then he’s waking up.
I scramble for the comforter, wrapping it around my chest, panicked and confused. My head throbs, and the room spins a little as I try to process how the hell this is happening.
“What are you doing here?” I demand, voice hoarse, still halfway asleep. “Did we… did we sleep together?”
Ryker looks startled, rubbing a hand through his hair. “No. No, we didn’t.”
I glance down at myself, mortified. “Then… why am I naked?”
“You took off your clothes in the middle of the night,” he says casually, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “You were hot.”
I blink, trying to remember. My stomach tightens. My thighs feel uncomfortably warm. The sight of him—shirtless and muscled—twists something inside me, and I immediately hate the slickness I feel.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Ryker…” I whisper, voice trembling.
He sits on the edge of the bed now, dark eyes soft, still looking a little sleepy. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, though my brain is struggling to make sense of anything. “I… I don’t remember anything.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “What do you remember?”
“Wine,” I murmur, trying to piece it together. “And… you at the flower shop.”
“I brought you home,” he says gently. “Put you to bed. Sometime around three in the morning… you threw up on me. Had to put my shirt in the washing machine.”
I freeze. My cheeks heat up, and my mouth falls open. “Oh my—oh my—no, no, no, no!” My hands fly to my face, pressing against my burning skin.
Mortified doesn’t even start to cover it.
He runs a hand through his hair again, calm, steady. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Really. I’m gonna go now.”
I’m still frozen, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights. My mind can’t process the combination of his bare chest, the soft morning light, the smell of pine, or the fact that he’s actually been here all night taking care of me.
“Thanks… for bringing me home,” I finally manage to squeak out, voice small, humbled. I can’t move. My limbs feel like lead.
He nods, stands up, and heads downstairs.
My brain finally kicks in, and I turn toward the small table where a bottle of water and some painkillers sit neatly—a little reminder that he was here, caring for me all night while I was passed out like an idiot.
I stare at the items, mouth slightly open, before sliding out of bed. Panties. Just panties. My hands instinctively grab the comforter and hold it around my chest as I shuffle toward the bathroom.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why is my life a sitcom that isn’t even funny?
And then, like a fresh slap in the face, my mind goes straight to Dorian. The man who stood me up. The man I’ve been thinking about all night.
Where the hell is he? Why didn’t he come through? Why am I hungover, naked, and suddenly painfully aware of Ryker’s chest in my bedroom while the snow falls outside?
I peel my panties off slowly and shove them onto the side of the tub. I don’t allow myself the terrifyingly tempting thought about whether this slick heat is leftover from Dorian or if it’s this… Ryker thing, because my brain is already overloaded.
The shower turns on with a hiss, hot water spilling over my skin and washing away the sticky remnants of last night. Steam curls up around me, and I press my hands against the tile, closing my eyes.
I can’t even begin to think about the absurdity of it all—the snow, the vomit, Ryker carrying me, the pine scent clinging to him, the way he just… existed in my house all night while I completely lost my mind.
Somehow, the water washing over me is the first thing that feels like it makes sense in hours.
My fingers trace the water droplets as they slide down my arms, over my shoulders, and I try to center myself. I let the warmth calm my pounding head, though every nerve is still alert, still buzzing from embarrassment, still dizzy from… from everything.
I lather soap into my hair, scrubbing away the sticky strands that cling to my forehead. I tilt my head back, letting the water run down, and for a moment, I can breathe.
My muscles finally start to loosen, and I can laugh, the sound muffled by the falling water and my own head. I laugh because there’s literally no way this could be real. Me, half-drunk, utterly mortified, and Ryker, shirtless and pine-scented, watching over me like I’m some fragile thing.
I turn, the water hitting my back, and the ridiculousness hits me again. My life has become this chain of absurd disasters, and I’m too exhausted and hungover to even care how ridiculous it is.
I drop the heady thought of Dorian entirely, though the memory lingers as a bitter flavor. He can wait. My immediate problem is surviving the next five minutes without laughing, crying, or throwing up again.
I rinse off, letting the hot water hit every part of me, peeling off the last hints of sticky residue from my skin. Then I step out carefully, trying not to slip on the wet tiles, and wrap myself in the towel hanging nearby.
My hair drips water onto the floor, and I wipe my feet on the mat before padding carefully toward my bedroom, wondering how the hell I’ll ever explain this night to anyone.
I glance at the bed, still a mess of blankets and sheets, and think of Ryker. He’s probably downstairs now, probably trying to sneak breakfast or clean up whatever I didn’t remember.
He might be embarrassed too, though I bet he won’t admit it. For some reason, that thought makes me smile, despite myself.
I check the painkillers, popping one with a sip of water, careful not to choke. My head still thuds in the background, but it’s manageable now.
My stomach rumbles again, reminding me I haven’t eaten, but I push that to the side. My priority is cleaning myself off, surviving this morning, and avoiding Ryker’s judgmental glare when he eventually comes back up to check on me.
Sliding into my pajamas feels almost surreal. It’s like reclaiming a tiny piece of dignity, even if my hair is still wet and plastered to my face.
I shake it out, letting it fall naturally across my shoulders, and sit on the edge of the bed. I wonder how I’ll ever get through the day without everyone learning about this.
I tiptoe toward the bathroom again, just to check the mirror, just to make sure I look at least semi-human, and catch a glimpse of myself—tired, flushed, a little red-eyed, but alive.
Alive and embarrassingly aware of the ridiculousness of it all.
I let out a breath, trying to center myself. This night, this messy, absurd night, is over. I’ve survived. Ryker survived.
And somehow, despite everything, I feel a strange sense of gratitude, tinged with the headiness of alcohol and embarrassment, toward him.
I shuffle down the stairs and pause when the smell hits me. Something like bleach. Strong and sharp, cutting through the lingering scent of last night’s mayhem.
My stomach twists at the memory, and I press a hand to my forehead, groaning softly. What the hell happened yesterday?
A plate sits on the table, steam curling gently around perfectly cooked pork chops and vegetables, the colors bright and inviting despite the smell that makes me wrinkle my nose.
A folded note rests beside it, handwritten: Eat while hot. No signature, but I already know. My pulse picks up a little.
Ryker isn’t here. I glance around the house, searching for a shadow, a shoe, anything, but he’s gone.
The truck that should be parked out front is gone, too. Somehow, that makes the scene more surreal, the absurdity of it hitting me like a punch.
I stare out the window, blinking, wondering if my brain is finally short-circuiting. I must be going insane. There’s no other explanation.
I drop down onto the sofa and grab the plate. Heat radiates from it, mingling with the smell of pork, garlic, and herbs.
My stomach grumbles, and for the first time since waking up, I feel normal. Relief coils through me as I take a bite.
It’s perfect, well-seasoned and filling. I eat slowly, savoring it, glad that the nausea from last night is gone. My hands tremble slightly, the leftover tipsiness making me clumsy as I bring another forkful to my mouth.
I curl up on the couch, finishing the plate, and stare at the empty house. I take a deep breath, trying to piece together fragments of memory, but I can’t remember much. Somehow, the world has reset itself, and I can move again without gagging every five minutes.
After what feels like an eternity, I finally manage to find my keys buried in the couch cushions. I change into jeans and a T-shirt and grab my coat, messy hair pinned up in a loose clip, shoes laced enough to walk.
I step outside, bracing against the chill, snow crunching beneath my boots, and head down to the flower shop.
I’m lucky. The shop is closed, the bell silent, shutters down except for a sticky note pressed to the handle. It’s from the butcher’s son. I came by & you were closed. All good?
I grab the note and pocket it.
My chest lifts slightly, relief spreading through me. Ryker did this—he must have closed up my shop before taking me home.
My gaze falls on the counter, and I spot the wine bottle from last night.