But he’d prefer to take that risk, rather than leave her out there on her own, ill and vulnerable.
Of course, hecouldhave escorted her back home in a taxi, but then there would have been witnesses. He supposed his altruistic tendencies could only run so deep now he was committed to “being on his best behaviour” for Gerrard.
What kind of topsy-turvy situation had he got himself into, where “best behaviour” meant making sure his image was spotless, while compromising his moral conscience? Bizarre.
Anyway, he hadn’t liked leaving her unsupervised while she was in that state either. It was obvious she was drunk, but it had been hot out as well, and he could tell just by touching her arm to help her over to the sofa, that she’d been burning up.
He’d gone back straight back downstairs, tugging his T-shirt into place while he was still damp, and checked on her. In exactly the same position he’d left her. So, now what?
Pacing. It turned out. Intermingled with sitting at the kitchen table and reading the latest script Gerrard had sent him. Another action film.
Halfway through, he knew this screenplay wasn’t for him. He’d had fun, without a doubt, acting out the childhood fantasy of being a superhero…but that didn’t mean he wanted to do the same thing again. And working with Wesley on this smaller film was making him see another side to acting. Making him think that maybe there was more to it. More to him.
Time to give up and make himself some dinner. He was just putting the extra bowl of pasta he’d cooked away into the fridge when he sensed her stir. She’d barely moved for over two hours. It was probably a good idea to get her to drink some more water and offer to call her a cab – providing she was sober enough.
He closed over the fridge door and went into the living area, taking a seat on the armchair at a right angle to the sofa. Her black eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks.
‘Hey, are you awake?’ he asked, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet of the room.
She stilled, like she was shocked. If she hadn’t been awake before, she certainly was now, thanks to him fog-horning in her ear. Then she bit her lip and raised herself slowly into a sitting position, swinging her legs back around but keeping her head bowed.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Awful,’ she said, in a raspy voice. He’d refilled her glass of water on the coffee table, but she didn’t reach for it. She rested her elbow on her knee and slid a shaky hand alongside her face, letting her hair fall forwards, a silky black veil across her features.
‘You want me to see if I can find some painkillers for your head? Or antacids for your stomach?’
Her breath caught softly in her throat. ‘Could you find me a time machine, so I could go back about four hours and stop at one glass?’
He laughed, but she didn’t join in. ‘Sorry, but if I found a time machine, I’d have more important work to do.’
‘Killing Hitler?’ She peeked at him through her fingers.
‘Is it totally unoriginal if I say yes?’
He caught the corner of her mouth pulling up slightly, then it wobbled and drooped back down again. She closed her eyes and a tear tracked down her cheek. Rowan swallowed, his chest growing hot and tight at the sight of it.
‘Are you okay?’ He moved over to sit beside her, putting his arm around her without stopping to worry about whether he should be touching her without an express invitation, until her shoulders shook.
He was about to move away when she dropped her head back into her hands and a quiet moan snuck out from beneath her hands. ‘This is so embarrassing.’
‘Lots of people get weepy after too much wine,’ he reassured her. ‘It’sliterallya depressive. I can never figure out the appeal personally.’
‘Oh God, you must think I’m a complete sot.’ Her volume rose, but the anguish rose along with it.
Nice one, Rowan.‘Err, I don’t know – what does “sot” mean?’
‘Y’know, a wino, a drunk.’ She was still talking into her hands.
‘Oh. No. Why would I think that? Just because you had a bit too much at the weekend in a beautiful country, where the wine flows freely? Nah.’
‘But what about the other night? At the ice-breaker? I’d had too much then too – that’s why I practically fell into the chair at the table and then acted like your long-lost friend or something. God…’ She trailed off with another groan.
‘Lila, what are you going on about?Everyonewas drunk that night.’
‘You didn’t seem drunk.’
‘Well, no. I don’t drink. That’s what happens when your dadwasan actual “sot”.’ He paused, taken aback by what he’d just admitted to this woman he hardly knew. So, she was crying – it didn’t mean he needed to start telling her all the secrets of his not-so-illustrious past. ‘Anyway, I guess that’s what makes me sound a bit judgemental about drinking. I’m biased.’
