“Thank fuck the Uber is here,” Beck murmured somewhere next to me. Was he the source of the warmth? I wanted to snuggle myself into it and sleep for days.
Strong hands guided me to the back of the vehicle, and I plopped onto the soft leather.
“What’s your address?” Beck asked and positioned me a bit farther into the car. Bossy, much?
“You live closer. I’m taking you home first.” I grinned just as my stomach released a weird sound. That’d show him.
“I don’t think so,” Beck said in a calm tone. “You need to lie down.”
“Well, okay,Mom. Just don’t touch my special sock.” I stuck my tongue out at him before telling the driver where I lived.
Beck shook his head, and his big, warm hand pushed on my chest for me to sit back. The first sudden stop, red light probably, vaulted me forward, but the second one sent my dinner flying out of my stomach. I swallowed quickly. Well, fuck.
“Mr. Stark.” I glanced at Beck, who looked like a Picasso painting—one eye higher than the other. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Fucking hell. Stop the car!”
The vehicle screeching to a halt didn’t help whatever the fuck was happening to my insides. Ah yes, I remembered from my college days that this was how being completely plastered felt. I also now remembered why I didn’t do that anymore. Well, not often at least. I wanted to move, but my body was made of clay, as if I was a character in an old stop-motion kids cartoon. A giggle bubbled up in me, but with horror, I realized it wasn’t a giggle at all.
I was vaguely aware of holding my mouth closed with my hand as Beck dragged me out of the car. When solid pavement under my feet grounded me, I looked up at my handler to say thank you. The moment I dropped my palm from my mouth and opened it, it was the half-digestedsteak that came out, not words of gratitude. My Supes had quick reflexes indeed, as he jumped back, saving his shoes from the inevitable splatter.
“I feel so much better now,” I said with a note of triumph before the world swirled around me, and I registered the concern in Beck’s voice.
The warmth of the sun on my face and the softness of the sheets that definitely weren’t mine made me sit up before I even opened my eyes. As my head swam and my stomach churned, I realized I should have stayed down. Oh shit. Getting shitfaced drunk last night hadn’t been part of the plan either. I blinked several times to recalibrate my vision and register the white walls, sleek furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows. The beautiful view confirmed I was still in Chicago.
Wait.
I looked around for a clue as to where I was precisely, but unless someone had abducted me, I had to be at Beck’s place. After all, his voice and face were the last thing I remembered.
Even as I squeezed the bridge of my nose, the headache didn’t subside. Had I barfed in the cab? Nope, just on the pavement. And thenwhat?
Panicked, I tossed the sheets aside to see I was in my boxers and socks. Had Beck undressed me?
Shit.
And I’d missed it.
“You undressed yourself.”
I yelped at the familiar voice and turned to Beck standing in the doorway with two mugs of steaming coffee, judging by the heavenly smell.
“I did?”
Beck bit his lip, his white T-shirt stretching on his chest as if it was about to burst, his loose sweats hanging low on his hips. Was he repressing a smile? Oh god, what had I done?
“Yeah. Your shirt sustained the most damage as you cursed the buttons, then tried to rip it off, yelling you were the Incredible Hulk.”
I buried my face in my hands. “Oh no. I’m so sorry.” I peeked through my fingers to see Beck shrug and place the mugs on a dresser by the door, away from my grasp.
“It was quite entertaining, actually. Your comic book references were surprisingly on point for being as drunk as you were.” Beck pointed to the water on the nightstand and a pill next to it. “Take that, and you can have the coffee. I see you eyeing it.”
“Does it have sugar in it?”
“Oh yeah.”
I used the bathroom, all white tiles and modern appliances, then ventured through the open living room, noting the sleek furniture and overall spotless look of the place. The fresh pastries that waited for me in the kitchen also had sugar in them, but not as much as Beck’s gaze when he looked at me. After he let me borrow his Superman T-shirt, I forced down some food and more coffee into my poor stomach. The awkwardness I’d been expecting didn’t come.
“And then you said ‘Mr. Stark, I don’t feel so good,’” Beck slurred, doing a drunk impression of me.
