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Chapter Eleven
Charlotte
Iwake upslowly, my head throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I try to open my eyes but my lids feel as if they’re weighed down with concrete blocks and it pains me to make the attempt.
So I remain lying there, the fan on above me cooling my heated skin.
I don’t remember actually going to bed. Or falling asleep. The last thing I recall is entering the villa with Perry. I threw myself at him, almost stumbling and he grabbed hold of me, his touch firm as he murmured, “You’re drunk, wife.”
I frown, then immediately try to relax my forehead. Even that hurts.
Oh God, I think I’m hungover.
There’s a soft knock coming from somewhere and then I hear the door open. Almost immediately I can smell my husband, his cologne mixed with his distinct, delicious scent, yet I don’t move. It’s like I can’t.
“You’re awake?” He’s whispering, which is such a relief.
“Yes,” I croak, my throat dry. Like I swallowed ten cotton balls and they’re all clogged in my throat.
“I brought you something to drink.” He speaks in what I assume is a normal tone as he enters the room and I roll over on my side, clamping my hand over my exposed ear.
“Please stop yelling,” I request weakly.
He chuckles and I hear the thunk of heavy glass being set onto the nightstand. “I’m not.”
I crack a single eye open but I don’t see him anywhere. “What did you bring me?”
“A glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen.” I hear the snap of a lid and the rattle of pills. Even that sounds too loud. “You should take four.”
“I don’t know if I can swallow them down,” I admit.
“Charlotte.” He lowers his voice. “Sit up.”
I do as he says, keeping my eyes tightly closed. My head swims, and I’m afraid if I see what’s actually going on, I might throw up.
“Open your eyes.”
Slowly I crack open my lids, wincing for a moment before I realize there’s no glare in the room. No bright sunlight or lamp on. It’s dim and quiet and the fan is whirring overhead.
“Look at me.”
I do as he says, slowly turning my head in the direction of his voice until there he is, standing beside my bed looking as casual as I think I’ve ever seen him in a T-shirt and pair of shorts, his hair mussed, his skin not as red as it was last night.
Ugh. Last night…
“Hold your hand out,” he tells me and I do as he says, watching as he dumps four ibuprofen into my palm. “Take a drink of water first.”
Like a child being told what to do, I glance over at the nightstand and grab the glass of water, drinking half of it in big gulps. The water is cool and soothing on my dry throat and I drop the pills onto my tongue before I swallow them down.
“Finish the water,” he says and I do so, draining every last drop until I set the glass in his offered hand.
I glance down at myself, frowning. “I’m wearing the same clothes from last night.”
“Do you even remember last night?”
“We went to dinner.”
“Yeah.”
