My fingers brush the cold metal of her keys, and I pull them out, locking eyes with her in the process. Her teasing smile falters, replaced by a shaky breath. I can practically taste the gin and tonic as I imagine kissing her. But she’d never forgive me if I did, and even though she’s drunk, I’m not willing to risk her wrath. So instead, I take her all in. She’s as beautiful as ever,blonde hair falling loose around her flushed face, lips parted, and I find my self wishing she’d verbalize permission to kiss her.
But it’s just my wishful thinking as and she slurs something about keeping my hungry eyes to myself, which makes me laugh, and we trudge along to our apartment building.
With her wobbly steps, it’ll take us forever to reach the second floor, so I scoop her off the ground and carry her to her apartment door. She’s as light as a feather. Does she even eat anything?
Her head rests against my shoulder when she says, “So, Mr. Runaway Man, why did you go into marketing, anyway?” Her tone is unguarded, curious, stripped of the armor she’s worn since the interview. “You used to roll your eyes every time I talked about my dreams.”
The question catches me off guard, but now’s not the time for that conversation. “Another time,” I say quietly, unlocking her door.
“Put me down.” Her hands push halfheartedly against my chest as we enter. “I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own.”
“I know you are.” I carry her to the bedroom. “But this is faster.”
Setting her gently on the bed, she fixes me with a look that’s both defiant and drowsy, blue eyes struggling to focus. “I’m fine,” she says, even as her eyelids start to droop.
“Of course you are.” Kneeling, I slip off her shoes and set them beside the nightstand.
Then I tuck her beneath the blanket. She shifts toward me, breath coming quick and shallow, and I force myself to step back, even as my eyes linger far longer than they should. How did we end up here?
My chest tightens as memories rush in—her laugh, her fiery determination, the way she used to look at me like I was her entire world. There’s so much I want to tell her, but I don’t thinkshe’s ready to hear it. I’m afraid she’ll hate me even more if I reveal the truth of what happened on that fateful day four years ago. I wanted her to have a bright future, and it never occurred to me she’d be back in Maplewood Springs—although a part of me has always hoped for it. Back then, I saw no other way than to break it off. If only I had been smarter about how I went about it...
She stirs again, and I lean in to check on her.
Her hand flings out and smacks me square in the face.
“Ow.” Well...I guess I deserved that.
I adjust the blanket one last time and wedge the extra pillows behind her, making sure she stays on her side. Then I head to the kitchen, dig a bucket out from beneath the sink, and set it beside her bed, just in case.
Pausing in the doorway, I glance back at her one more time. She looks so peaceful, like she’s lost in some sweet dream, even though I’m certain there’s a storm of resentment buried deep down.
“Good night,” I whisper, closing the door behind me.
Back in my apartment, sleep won’t come. Sleepless nights have become my constant companions since the interview. I still can’t believe what I saw when her application landed in front of me.
I wish this awkwardness would end, but I’m afraid that trying to explain myself will only worsen it—and I couldn’t handle losing her again.
Chapter 13
The first thing that hits me when I open my eyes is a jackhammer pounding behind my skull, followed by a wave of nausea that sloshes through my entire body. My mouth tastes like something died in it, and when I try to sit up, the room tilts dangerously, the walls swimming in slow, lazy circles around me.
Oh no. I’m going to hurl.
Panic seizes me as I realize I’ll never make it to the bathroom. Not with my legs feeling like overcooked spaghetti and my stomach already contracting to expel whatever churns inside.
Then I spot it, a plastic bucket parked beside my bed, as if some hangover fairy godmother anticipated my misery. I lunge for it, wrapping my arms around it like it’s a long-lost friend, then empty the foul, gin-flavored contents of my stomach with zero dignity.
“Never again,” I say to myself. It’s the same empty promise I’ve made after every regrettable night out.
Speaking of last night—what exactly happened? My memory feels like Swiss cheese, with gaping holes where important details should be. The bar. Wendy. Something about a guy...
My phone buzzes against the nightstand, the vibration amplified to earthquake proportions by my sensitive skull. Wincing, I reach for it, squinting at the screen.
It’s Wendy.
“Good morning!” Her voice chirps through the speaker, so cheerful it makes my teeth ache. “How’s the hangover?”
I rest my cheek on the bucket’s rim, pathetic and resigned. “Terrible,” I mumble. “I feel like I got hit by a truck, backed over, then hit again for good measure.”
