The one that hasn’t moved.
My accusation is disproven in a matter of seconds. But I haven’t failed to offend the man before me.
Emmett straightens, and now, his gaze is furious. “Believe what you want. I’m a lot of things, but arapistisn’t one of them.”
The way he spits the words brings me up short, my head rearing back as though he’s landed a physical blow. My rage seeps out of me, fear creeping in, cooling my blood in its wake. “What?”
“The guy you were with drugged you. I was watching from across the bar when I put it together. I intervened. You asked me to get you out of there, and I did.”
My throat constricts. Any words I had planned to hurl at him shrivel and perish on my tongue.
“I don’t remember… any of that,” I admit, voice cracking as I rack my brain for some tendril of that memory.
“I was going to take you to the doctor, but you didn’t want that, so—” Emmett pushes like he’s about to stand, and I startle,taking a quick step away. I don’t want him to tower over me right now.
His eyes flit to my feet, noting the movement, and he pauses. Reaching one palm toward me in a “slow down” gesture, he settles back on the chaise offering me the space I need right now.
A relieved sigh spills from my lips, and only then does he continue speaking.
“Listen. I slept out here because it’s the farthest away I could get from you without throwing myself overboard. You were sick, so I rinsed you off in the shower, wrapped you in a towel, and put you in my bed. I took absolutely zero liberties except to check your breathing intermittently because you were so limp and out of it.”
He pauses now. Head tipping as though considering if he should say more. Then he confesses, “And I undid your bun because it looked uncomfortable, and my sister once told me that it was bad for your hair to sleep with it done up tight like that.”
His face is entirely earnest. Bright blue eyes wide. Voice sincere. Somehow, this behavior, coming from the carefree playboy Emmett Bush, is throwing me for a loop.
“You were worried about my hair?” is my dumb, dissociative response to everything he just told me.
He shrugs, staring at me intently. And for the life of me, I can’t find a single sinister thing about the guy in this moment.
“I was just plain worried.”
His words—the simplicity of his sentence—knocks the wind out of me. I don’t know what to make of it. Last night, this morning.Him.
Everything feels upside-down, and nothing feels right.
“Thank you,” I say simply. Because what else do I say? What else do I do? Iamthankful. But my brain is full to bursting, and my body aches for home. For my bed, for snow, for winter boots,and for late nights spent in the library on campus. I’d settle for hiding under my blanket and reading a good book with my flashlight.
Suddenly, I’m exhausted.
Emmett offers me a cautious nod. “Any time. If you want to report anything, I suspect he’s being held by—”
Overcome by a sudden wave of shyness, I drop his piercing gaze and cut him off. “Where’s my sarong?”
“That white scarf? I washed it. It’s hanging on the bar over the shower.”
He washed it.
“My purse?”
“On the hook by the door.”
I nod quickly, the tears from earlier threatening to escape once again. Before they do, I turn away with a hushed “Thanks” spilling from my lips as though that single word could be enough to encompass my gratitude for what he’s done for me.
Nausea sways in my gut, and the dull ache in my head roars to a new level as I hurry through Emmett’s room. I grab my sunglasses from the bedside table and pop into the bathroom, where my sarong hangs from the bar. Just like he said it would be.
As I pull it down, I’m hit with a wave of ginger scent. It’s spicy and fresh, and when I hold it up to my nose and breathe deeply, my nausea about the happenings of last night eases. I imagine him hunched over the sink, washing my vomit out of the fabric with his bare hands.
My embarrassment does nothing to comfort me. It makes me feel like I owe him for his help. For rescuing me. For taking care of me. And I don’t want to owe Emmett a single fucking thing.
