Suddenly, she pulls away. Her eyes go wide, hand flying to her mouth. Before I can ask what’s wrong, she’s stumbling across the room, bare feet slapping against the hardwood, and the bathroom door bangs against the wall.
I find her curled around the toilet, knuckles white against porcelain. The harsh fluorescent light catches the sheen of sweat on her forehead as she heaves. Without a word, I gather her hair in one hand, my other hand making slow circles between her shoulder blades. Her body trembles beneath my palm with each retch. The faint scent of tequila fills the small space.
As I hold her steady, I notice the small birthmark behind her ear I’ve never seen before. A tiny crescent moon hidden beneath her hair.
“No, go,” she murmurs, weakly pushing against me. “I don’t want you to see this.”
“Too late, babe,” I chuckle softly.
“Please,” she pleads, looking up at me with wide eyes.
I nod, sighing. “Okay.”
I step outside and close the door. “Thank you, Ford,” she calls out before vomiting again.
Resting my head against the door, I want to rush in and help her, to be there when she wakes up, but I know that’s not what she wants.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this, Harper,” I whisper before pushing away from the door.
Even if I wanted to stay, I have to leave. I can’t leave her equipment at the Moose Lodge. It’s probably safe, but I’m not taking any chances. It’s her livelihood.
Maybe it’ll mean something to her if she doesn’t remember the kiss. I wouldn’t mind another first kiss with Harper Wallace.
Chapter 8
Harper
My eyelids feel heavy, and I dread the thought of opening them. A dull ache pulses in my head, while my stomach churns as if it’s been filled with acid. The door creaks open, but I keep my eyes shut until Gina’s shrill voice pierces through the fog, making me wince and fight the urge to retch.
“Gross. It smells like puke in here.”
I manage to squint at her and raise my middle finger in a silent salute of disdain.
Gina kneels beside the bed, her energy grating against my misery. I loathe her for being so annoyingly cheerful, especially after all the alcohol she avoided last night. “I owe you, Harp. So much.”
“I’m going to collect,” I rasp, my voice raw and painful.
It’s hard to tell if the scratchiness comes from the hangover or the amount I threw up, but either way, I feel like death warmed over.
“You have to get up. Come on. Chop chop.”
I grab a pillow not currently under my head and hurl it at her. “Go away.”
“You have a visitor,” she says, catching the pillow effortlessly. “Oh, and you probably want to swish some mouthwash. And clean up that makeup situation.”
Dragging myself out of bed, I reach for her for support as I nearly topple over. “Your friends are borderline alcoholics, you know. Who takes shots like that and isn’t freshly legal to get into bars?”
I toss an empty water bottle from the nightstand aside in frustration.
Gina just laughs, which irritates me further. Hungover Harper is definitely not Pleasant Harper. She helps me change into something somewhat presentable before guiding me into the bathroom. I gulp water straight from the faucet and then grab the mouthwash. The lingering taste of alcohol makes me gag, forcing me to rinse again with water.
“There you go,” Gina says, wiping away the remnants of mascara or eyeliner—honestly, I can’t tell anymore—from my cheeks. “You look… less like death.”
“I hate you so much right now.”
She laughs again. If I had any strength, I’d threaten to give her a black eye for her wedding day, but we both know it would be an empty threat. Right now, I lack the energy to be menacing.
I stumble down the stairs and find Ford standing in the doorway. The memory of our kiss—a passionate, electric moment—flashes into my mind, quickly followed by the recollection of hugging the toilet for a good portion of the night.
