Page 34 of Pucking Forbidden

I push myself upright slowly, the room tilting and making me pause.

“Okay,” I murmur. “We’re going to move very carefully today.”

I swing my legs over the side of the couch, dragging a hand through my hair as I try to piece everything together properly.

I press my hand to my face, groaning.

Julian was there for every moment of it.

There’s something uniquely humiliating about that realization. Of all the people to see me like that, why’d it have to be him? He’s so contained and controlled. He seems to have his shit together. I must have seemed like such a mess.

A complete, inexperienced, couldn’t-even-handle-three-beers mess.

“Fantastic,” I mutter.

Looking up, I find a glass of water and a bottle of painkillers sitting on the coffee table. My heart does a little flutter. Did Julian leave those for me?

I release a soft breath and push myself to stand, ignoring the slight protest from my head, and start toward the bathroom. I need a shower. Hopefully it will make me feel remotely human again and wash off the lingering embarrassment crawling under my skin.

I barely make it two steps before there’s a knock at the door. I freeze. Who the heck could that be? For a moment, I consider ignoring it, not really feeling up to being around people at the moment, but there’s another knock. Releasing a long sigh, I turn for the door.

“Coming,” I call out, my voice cracking.

I pull the door open, and my entire body goes rigid, my heart executing a violent, stuttering leap against my ribs. Julian stands in the doorway, and for a second, I can’t even process the grocery bags in his arms because the sheer, physical presence of him is enough to knock the breath out of my lungs.

He’s wearing a fitted black t-shirt that clings to the massive breadth of his shoulders, the fabric straining across his chest in a way that makes my mind instantly, traitorously flash back to the feel of those muscles under my palms when we danced at Rylee and Zander’s wedding. His dark, curly hair is a bit wilder than usual, pulled up into a half-bun, and his beard is perfectly groomed against the sharp line of his jaw. He looks rugged, solid, and so unfairly attractive that it actually hurts to look at him.

Even with a headache pounding behind my eyes, I can't stop the sudden, intrusive thought of how easily those large arms could pin me against this doorframe.

Julian lifts the bags, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face.

“Figured you might need food,” he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates right through the floorboards and straight into my core. “And maybe some caffeine before your brain explodes.”

I blink at him, my mouth open, my brain struggling to coordinate a response that doesn't involve me just staring at the way his biceps flex under the weight of the paper bags. He looks like a grizzly bear who just wandered out of the mountains and into my over-sanitized, expensive hallway, and the contrast is so overwhelming I’m surprised I haven't tripped over my own feet yet.

"I...you're here," I manage to squeak out, my face heating up as his dark brown eyes track the movement of my lips.

"I'm here," he echoes, his smirk widening as he waits for me to move out of the way. "You gonna let me in?"

“You…brought groceries?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Thought I’d make breakfast.”

I stare at him, dumbstruck.

I can hardly believe he’s back already after everything that happened last night.

“Oh,” I murmur, my cheeks heating. I struggle not to think of last night, when I was bent over the toilet, and he was holding my hair back. “Um…okay.”

I step back enough to let his massive frame pass through the door. As he brushes past me, the crisp scent of the morning air clings to him, mixed with his distinct cedar-and-leather warmth. It floods my senses, momentarily drowning out the stale, lingering taste of last night.

Julian doesn’t just walk in, however. The second he clears the threshold, he halts, shifting the heavy grocery bags to one arm with effortless strength so he can turn his full attention to me.

His dark brown eyes narrow, performing a slow, deliberate sweep down my entire body. It’s an intense, heavy assessment that makes my skin tingle. He isn't just checking me out this time. He’s checking on me. His gaze lingers on the dark circles under my eyes, the slight tremble in my fingers, and the way I’m leaning against the wall for support. He reads the exact level of my misery in a single second, his brow furrowing with a flash of gruff concern.

Can he tell the painkillers haven't kicked in yet?

Before I can say anything, his eyes snap past me to the heavy oak coffee table in the living room. He scans the surface, verifying that the glass he filled for me last night is empty. Seemingly satisfied that I at least followed his unspoken orders, his gaze snaps back to mine.