“Tired. Thirsty. Tired and thirsty.”
Time warped. I drifted back under, and when I surfaced again, he was beside me, gently shaking my shoulder.
“Water?” He held out a glass, ice clinking against the sides.
Oh, heaven. Ice.
The warmth I’d been buried in was suddenly an inferno. My bed wasn’t cozy anymore. It was a sweat dungeon.
“Thanks.” I sat up, took the glass and drained it, kicking the covers off at the same time. Then the cool air hit me, and I immediately regretted it.
Why was it that both times I’d been around this man, I’d been a complete disgusting mess?
My work clothes were plastered to me. There were wet circles of sweat under my arms, under my boobs, and…oh God…between my legs. Why did it have to feel like I’d peed myself?
“I need a shower.” Not bothering to ask what happened or why he was here, I set the glass on the nightstand and stood.
He moved as though ready to catch me. “I can get it started for you. Or just make sure you don’t pass out on your way there.”
“I’m fine.” I moved away from him, pretending I was steady on my feet. At my dresser, I pulled open a drawer and rummaged for clean yoga pants and a shirt large enough to hide in.
“You don’t seem fine.” His words were pure concern. No judgment. “You were passed out at work. The redhead told me you were sick.”
“Larissa. She exaggerates. I’m just tired—been working too much.” I leaned against the dresser, arms crossed over my chest, trying to hide the sweat stains I was wearing like a badge of shame.
Why was he still standing so close? And why did he have to look so fucking good doing it?
His dark hair was pushed back from his face, those blue eyes sparkling behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses that made my pulse do stupid things. His shirt clung to his wide shoulders, sleeves pushed to his elbows, tattoos on display.
He wasn’t leaving, and my curiosity finally won out over my embarrassment. Or maybe it was my love of all things self-destructive. “What are you doing here, and how did you get me home?”
“Same way I did last time.” He shot me a playful grin. “Carried you in. No big deal.”
“But why you?”
“Your coworkers called Chantel because they couldn’t wake you up. She’s on shift and couldn’t leave, so she called me.”
That still didn’t explain why Caleb Alexander was standing in my bedroom in Copper Ridge instead of sitting in a lecture hall two hours away.
“I’m sorry, but what the hell is going on right now? Did you drive all the way from Toronto to pick me up from work?”
He was completely unbothered by my rudeness. “I didn’t drive from Toronto. I was already here. Across the hall, actually.”
My breath stalled. “Across the hall. Here? In this house?”
“Yeah. I moved in today.” He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m staying with Chantel until I figure out my next move. I thought she would have told you.”
The air left my lungs in rush.
He was living here. In the spare room, across the hall. The hall I walked through every morning to get to the bathroom. The hall I padded down in my pajamas with toothpaste on my chin and my hair looking like something that lived under a bridge.
“Oh, she probably did.” I waved it off like it was nothing. “I’ve been distracted.”
She hadn’t told me a damn thing. And that hurt. But admitting that there’d been a wall slowly building between my best friend and me wasn’t something I was prepared to do in front of her cousin. Not while standing in a puddle of my own sweat.
“Well, I’ve been meaning to come see you anyway.” His smile shifted into something bolder, erasing my thoughts about Chantel. And everything else.
“How old are you?” I blurted.
