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“Sorry,” she says, resting her cheek on my shoulder.
“It’s all right.” I rest my lips on her hair. It smells of strawberries.
What on earth happened tonight? I saw her going off with her mother, and when I didn’t hear from her, I assumed she’d either stayed there talking, or had decided to go home. I was disappointed, but pleased in a way that she’d finally taken the time to talk to her mother. Clearly, though, things haven’t gone as well as I hoped.
The doors open, and I carry her along the corridor to my room. I fumble to get the card out of my pocket, touch it to the door, then open it and take her inside. I think she might already be asleep.
The door swings shut behind me. The room is nothing special, just one allocated to the wedding party. Sometimes when I’m in hotels I rent the penthouse or one of the suites, but this time I knew I wouldn’t be spending much time here, so I was content that it just has a comfortable bed and a decent shower.
I take her over to the bed, bend and peel back the duvet, then lower her feet to the floor. She’s very woozy, a combination, I think, of alcohol and exhaustion.
“Come with me.” Grabbing one of my tees from my open case on the way, I lead her through to the bathroom and turn on the light. She looks at her reflection in the mirror, winces, and turns away.
“Change into this,” I instruct, “and when you’ve finished in here, we’ll get you to bed, and you can sleep it off.”
She rests her forehead on my chest. “I don’t think I can do it on my own.” She lifts her arm behind her back to reach her zipper, then lets it fall again.
I blow out a silent breath. “All right, come here.” I turn her around gently, find the tab of the zipper, and slide it down. Yeah, of course, she’s not wearing a bra. I wince as I think what the bartender would say if she could see us now.
But Belle sways against me, and suddenly she’s just a young woman who’s upset and unwell and who needs help. “Come on,” I say briskly, “let’s get this tee on you.”
Staying behind her, I help her get her arms out of the bodice of the dress, and it slips to the floor in a whisper of material. Keeping my eyes averted, I grab the tee, pull it over her head, and hold it so she can push her arms through. I then tug it down over her body, desperately trying not to look at her pale skin, or her curves in the huge mirror that insists on showing me everything.
Once it’s on, she leans against me, trembling. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she murmurs.
I sigh, lead her over to the toilet, and hold her hair back while she vomits. When she’s done, I take her to the sink so she can rinse her mouth, then leave her for a moment to use the toilet.
When she’s done, I lift her up into my arms, take her back to the bed, and lay her on the mattress. I retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge, bring it back, and remove the top.
“Drink as much as you can,” I instruct, and I stand over her while she downs half the bottle. Then I pull the duvet over her. She’s white-faced, and her eyes are huge.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
“It’s all right.”
But her bottom lip trembles, and tears leak from her eyes. “I’ve fucked everything up,” she says.
“Aw, Belle…”
She starts crying for real.
I watch her for a moment. Then, after extracting another tee from my case, I unbutton my shirt and toss it onto the chair. I tug on the tee, then take off my trousers. Finally, I have a look in the wardrobe and find a spare blanket.
I come back to the bed. The sofa is only a two-seater anyway, so I wouldn’t get any sleep on there.
Propped up on the pillows, I lie on top of the covers and drape the blanket over myself. Immediately, she moves up close to me and slides her arms around my waist.
Sighing, I wrap my arms around her and hold her close.
“I’m sorry,” she says, sobbing. “I’m sorry.”
“Shh.” I rub her back over the duvet. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be all right.”
She cries for a bit, then slowly the sobs stop, and she gives a big sigh. “I shouldn’t have drunk so much.”
“Ah, it happens. Don’t worry about it.”
“Thank you for rescuing me.”
