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.
