Chapter 8 Hangover Cure
Ren
Iwake up to what I’m certain are hundreds of tiny gnomes trying to pickax their way out of my skull. I keep my eyes shut as I roll over, refusing to make it any worse. The cool silk on this side of the pillowcase provides the tiniest bit of relief— silk?
I don’t own silk pillowcases.
My eyes fly open, and I wince at the sun streaming through giant windows that I don’t recognize. As I take in the unfamiliar setting, the previous night trickles back to me.
Was I really at the Fox’s Den all day?
After the call with my mother left me in desperate need for a drink, I remembered Harlow’s offer in the giraffe barn.
I recognized the pub’s name when they mentioned it because it’s only a few blocks from my home and across the street from June Bug.
I drove straight there, figuring I’d get a beer with lunch then drive home to contemplate my increasingly collapsing life.
Instead, I had a beer with lunch, then a few more when Harlow joined me, then switched to wine with dinner and afterward, until I finally left. There was no way I was getting behind the wheel of a car, so I decided to walk.
I don’t remember how or when they showed up, but suddenly, there were two men on either side of me. I was confused and a little uneasy, but I think I was too drunk to truly process the danger I was in. Even now, my memory isn’t crystal clear.
Mostly, what I remember is the flicker of the old streetlamp that grew fainter the deeper into the alley the two strangers pulled me. And Roman . . . Oh my god, Roman!
I clutch my breath as if I’m hiding from someone, except it’s only my own mortification.
After sharing one night of the best not-sex sex of my life, I’m now the sloppy drunk girl who got too wasted to get home safely or keep track of her keys.
I wish I could shrivel up under this comforter and disappear.
Better yet, I should just leave. If I’m lucky, he’ll still be asleep and I can sneak out.
My phone tells me it’s a little past eight, so I’ll have to call a locksmith since the Den won’t be open for another few hours.
It will be worth it if it means I can get out of here without having to face Roman.
I slip out of bed still in my clothes from last night—ew—and look for my shoes. I find them on the floor with my purse halfway from the door to the bed. They’re staggered in a line as if I stepped out of them while walking. Adds up.
My hopes for quietly sneaking out are quickly dashed when the first thing I see upon opening the bedroom door is Roman reading on the couch.
He uses one large hand to hold the hardcover book with ease.
His other hand sits around his mug, balancing on the armrest. He looks up as I exit the room and lowers his book.
He doesn’t say anything as he pins me with an unreadable look and slowly lifts the coffee to his lips.
After his sip, he just slightly tilts his head, still wordless. I feel naked under his silent, steady gaze. I even glance down to make sure I’m not pantless or something. When I look back up, his dark brown eyes are still fixed on me, but he does finally say something.
“There are a few things for you on the counter.” He nods toward the kitchen island behind me.
His apartment is spacious with an open floor plan and lots of natural light. It’s modern and almost unnervingly clean, like something from a magazine. Looking around, I see there’s almost no personal touch or items, even down to the undecorated Christmas tree.
“Thanks.” I add to fill the silence, “So, you’re one of those people that waits until the last minute to decorate their tree, huh? By Black Friday, my house is covered in tinsel and holly.”
“I don’t decorate it,” he states flatly.
“What?” I practically gasp. “But the whole point of getting a Christmas tree is to decorate it.” When he doesn’t offer any explanation, I awkwardly turn toward the kitchen.
On the counter, I find a neat row of a bottle of ibuprofen, a glass of water, an iced coffee, and . . . “My keys!” I spin around, shocked. “Where did you find them?”
He sets his book down. “Last night, I called the Den, and someone had found them on the floor. After you went to bed, I went back to pick them up.”
“Wow, thank you. That was really nice of you. I thought I was gonna have to call a locksmith.”
My stomach swoops. The line of hangover remedies was thoughtful on its own, but offering me his guest room then going back out to get my keys is .
. . straight up erotic. I’m tempted to get naked.
I mean, if I already feel naked, then why not?
Then I remember the way he sent me to bed right after kissing me.
He probably wants me to get out, not naked.
“It’s not a problem,” he says dryly, then picks his book back up, and my stomach swoops again but not in a good way.
He wasn’t being extra thoughtful for my sake.
He just doesn’t want me to continue taking up more of his time.
I’ve clearly ruined whatever he found attractive in me with my drunken carelessness of last night.
“Well, thank you anyway.” I quickly swiping up my keys and throwing them in my purse. Just get me out of here before this situation gets any more embarrassing.
Unfortunately, I’m not that lucky, because seeing the front door makes me remember that I slapped his butt right before I walked in. Oh. My. God.
I try to will myself to spontaneously combust.
“The coffee is for you too,” he offers without looking up from his book.
“Oh, thanks,” I reply, a little perplexed. Picking it up, I recognize June Bug’s logo—a man of habit. I walk to the front door as quickly as I can without being too obvious I’m running away with my tail tucked between my legs.
I open the door then uncomfortably throw out, “Okay, um, bye then. Thanks again.”
His eyes flick from his book to me and the smallest hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Anytime, vanilla iced latte.”
His words shock me to my core. I’m so stunned that all I think to do as I run out the door is shout, “Sorry I slapped your butt!”
Before it closes, I swear I hear a chuckle.