Oh, was he was one of the muscle men? Damn it, she’d been so focused on not being molested that she’d forgotten how youthful some of the men around here were. Youthful, nimble, and…still moaning.
Maybe he’d wounded himself on the way out of bed.
“Are you okay?” If he was, her next question was going to be if he knew where the light switch was.
But he didn’t answer.
“Don’t tell anyone about this,” he rasped.
How could she? She still didn’t really understand what this was. “Of course not.” And then after another awkward, very silent beat, she added, “What were you doing in my bed?”
“It’s my bed.”
“But this is my cabin.”
“Clearly not.”
Was it clear? Nothing felt clear. Her head started to pound, and she wiggled herself off the bed, the opposite side from him. “I’m going to go.”
“Where?”
“My cabin.”
“You thought this was your cabin.”
“But it’sclearly not, as you just said.”
“Why did you think this was your cabin?”
“Because I have the packet in my bag,” she explained dumbly. “From registration.”
“Show me.”
“What?” She stepped toward the door, blindly reaching for her tote bag. Her hand came up empty.
The man had better luck. He swung it in the air. Maybe he wasn’t three sheets to the wind, or he had the night vision of an owl. Maybe both. Damn, to be sober and sharp-eyed.
“That’s mine.”
“You’re drunk,” he said slowly.
“Uh…” She took a deep breath. “That’s none of your beeswax.”
He chuckled.
Laughed.
He’d been nearly in tears before, then he’d asked her to keep that a secret—which of course she would, she was a nice person—and now he was laughing at her? She didn’t think he knew how this empathy thing worked.
“Don’t make fun of tipsy people,” she said sourly. “It’s not nice.”
“You’re swaying on the spot, lady. How about I help you find your cabin?”
“How about you help me find my tote bag?” She swiped at it and missed. “Hey!”
He reached in and pulled out the papers she’d looked at.
“See?”
