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“Good morning.”
Hysteria makes me pull the covers back up over my fully clothed body as Ansel leans into the doorway of his bedroom. He rubs a towel through his wet hair, and the soft smile of a man who isn’t hungover and doesn’t have a splitting headache crests his lips. I kind of hate how good he looks fresh out of the shower and wearing a simple T-shirt and pair of sweat pants…and the fact that he probably remembers what happened last night with a touch more clarity.
Seriously? Why can’t I remember what happened?
“Good morning,” I croak out through the cobwebs in my throat.
“How are you feeling?”
All sorts of manic comments about hysteria and leaving the country come to mind, but I don’t let any of them overflow the surface as I shrug. “I mean, I’ve been better.”
His smile grows in response. “Well, do you think some coffee might help take the edge off?”
“God, yes.”
“All right, then.” He chuckles. “Meet me downstairs?”
I nod and watch as he turns on his heels and heads for the first floor of his house.
As soon as he’s out of sight, I shoot out of the bed with a speed I immediately regret. After a quick sway with my hands on my knees, I head into the bathroom, pee, and do a half-assed job of fixing my hair. I mean, what’s the point now? I pretty much ruined the allure of a woman who has her shit together last night when I decided to test my ability to hold my alcohol like a frat boy.
Fucking hell, I failed.
I make the best of my situation and brush my teeth with toothpaste and my index finger. Then, I take one last glance in the mirror, groan at my borderline-horrid appearance, pull up my proverbial big-girl panties, and head for the stairs. Luckily, I have the delicious aroma of bacon to guide my way to the kitchen like a lighthouse beacon shining in the night.
When I get there, Ansel is by the stove, flipping said bacon and scrambling up some eggs.
Jesus, he cooks too?
“You made breakfast?”
“I did.” He grins at me over his shoulder. “Take a seat and have some coffee.” He nods at the already poured steaming mug sitting on the kitchen island. “This will be ready in a minute or two.”
I do as he says and sit down on the stool directly behind my mug. I’m almost scared to taste it, but when I do, it’s exactly the way I like it.
“Coffee good?” he asks with a wry grin, and I nod.
“Perfect,” I whisper. I’m clutching the cup in my hands like it’s the key to the queen’s castle, and the tips of my fingers start to feel weirdly numb.
It’s just a cup of coffee, Indy, I tell myself. Then why doesn’t it feel like it?
I blame my weird thoughts on all of the alcohol I shoved into my body last night and focus on the plate full of bacon and eggs that Ansel slides in front of me. Not to mention, the three ibuprofen he discreetly sets down beside my coffee.
Ah, yes. Pain killers.
He has literally thought of everything.
I quickly down the pills, and my stomach growls hungrily at the sight of the delicious food. The eggs are fluffy and light and just what I need to cut through the consequences of the alcohol.
“Breakfast is served.” He winks, and I giggle.
“Thank you,” I say and pick up my fork. “This looks delicious.”
He sits down beside me and digs into his food. He’s almost finished, and I’ve only managed four bites of eggs when I finally decide to address the big, fat elephant playing soccer with my mind.
“So, uh, what exactly happened last night?”
He glances at me out of his periphery as he takes a sip of coffee. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…how did I end up here?”
“Oh.” He nods and sets down his mug. “You were a little too drunk last night to be on your own.”
“God.” I drop my head to the counter and groan before looking back up to meet his eyes. “I’m so sorry about that. If it’s not obvious, I almost never drink alcohol. Pretty sure my tolerance is equivalent to a toddler’s.”
“No apology necessary.” Ansel chuckles, and a whole new set of butterflies takes flight in my stomach. I thought it’d be easy—that we would naturally segue into the conversation about whether anything physical happened. But we didn’t. And now I have to put myself out there all over again.
Christ, Indy. You are banned from alcohol for the rest of your life.
“So…uh…did anything…happen?”
He searches my eyes for a long moment, and my breath freezes in my lungs.
Oh God, I start to panic. Something happened.
I swallow thickly and chew at the inside of my lip. Ansel finally sighs. “Besides you sleeping in my bed and me sleeping on the couch? No, Indy,” he says. “Nothing happened.”
