I’m shaking my head before he finishes saying my name. “No. You’ve got to be exhausted. I can deal.”
He huffs. “I am exhausted, but you are too.” His eyes are fixed on the road, but that doesn’t stop him. “Have you taken a look at yourself in the mirror?”
And, God, do I want to crawl into a pit.
“Take a look,” he says, nodding toward the passenger visor mirror.
“I’m good,” I grumble.
“Seriously. Do it.”
I huff and flip down the visor. “Fine.”
And I look.
Holy crap.
My hair looks like I slept on it wet before corkscrewing my head on my pillow all night.
Which is basically what I did.
After Josh and Zach left, how could I possibly sleep?
I did my best this morning with a messy bun, but now there's way more mess than bun. And even without considering the rats nest that my curls have become, one look at my eyes says it all. They are bloodshot and lined with dark circles.
My nose is red from crying, and my lips are chapped.
I flip closed the visor and shoot a glare at Zach. I’m about to say something defensive when I take in his pallor.
“You don’t look so hot yourself.”
Which is a damn lie.
Zach looks hot 24/7. He just looks really, really tired right now.
He frowns in apparent disbelief and yanks the rearview mirror toward him.
“Good God,” he mutters.
His usually ruddy complexion is sallow, and those freckles I love so much across his nose and cheekbones stand out in sharp relief. His flame hazel eyes have lost their spark. In fact, they look downright bleary. And the skin around his eyes, usually dewy and bright, is drawn—the way mine gets when I haven’t had enough water.
“If we’re competing in the Exhaustion Olympics, I think you take the gold,” I say.
Zach snorts. At least the corner of his mouth lifts in a smile. “You’re delirious,” he mutters. Then he shakes his head, never taking his eyes off the road. “No, I promised you yesterday you could take the day off today, and then things went sideways.”
Sideways?
I have no doubt both of us are picturing the scene in my bedroom last night, and it doesn’t seem to lift the mood one bit.
“Yeah, but—”
“Greta, let me do this, okay?” His voice is clipped, frustration sharpening the edges.
Uh oh.
“Zach, I—”
His whole posture deflates. “Shit, Greta. I’m sorry.” He glances at me long enough to show me eyes that are full of remorse and something… something I can’t read.
