“I’m not surprised; you were asleep before I could convince you to drink some water. Are you hungry? I could ask Armand to make us breakfast sandwiches.”
“That sounds amazing and like it’s going to make me want to puke all at the same time. Why aren’t you as sick as me?”
“Because I didn’t drink yesterday.”
“You didn’t?” she questions, her brow furrowed.
“No. I thought it was best to stay sober, in case you and your mom got into it.”
“Did we?” she asks, pressing her hand to her forehead.
“No.”
“Good.”
Texting Armand, I ask him to make breakfast sandwiches and a couple of smoothies just in case she can’t stomach the food when it arrives.
“Let’s take a shower, the water will make you feel better,” I tell her.
“No,” she whines. “I’m staying here until I die or feel better, whichever comes first.”
“Come on, Little Bird, I’ll do all the work.”
Reluctantly lifting her arms into the air, she wraps them around my neck, then clings to me like a monkey as I lift her out of bed and into the shower. Not letting me go, she rests her cheek on my shoulder while I wash her body, then hair, one-handed, struggling to get the suds out while she hangs on, not even attempting to help.
Once we’re both as clean as I can make us without putting her down, I turn off the shower, then wrap her in a towel and sit her on the counter beside the basin. Putting toothpaste on her brush, I lift it to her mouth.
“Open up,” I tell her, watching as she looks at me, then does as I’ve asked and opens her mouth.
Carefully brushing her teeth first, I hold her hair every time she leans over to spit, then palm her thigh while I brush my own teeth. Once I’m finished, I lift her into my arms and carry her into the closet.
Lowering her to her feet, I dry the water from her skin, then blot her hair. Using the towel on myself next, I drop it into the hamper, then pick out some shorts and a matching sports bra and bring them over to her.
“Panties?” she asks.
“Nope,” I tell her, crouching down and holding the shorts out for her to step into.
Without protest, she lets me dress her, then watches as I pull on a pair of loose shorts, not bothering with boxers.
Leading her back into the bedroom, I find her hairbrush and run it through her hair until the wet strands are smooth and tangle-free.
“Carry me,” she whines when I take her hand to lead her out of the bedroom. “Please.”
Scoffing lightly beneath my breath, I lift her into my arms, holding her beneath her butt as she wraps her arms and legs around me again.
The breakfast sandwiches and smoothies have appeared like magic and are waiting for us when we get downstairs. Unwrapping the sandwiches, I carry the platter into theliving room. Lowering Starling to the couch first, I place the sandwiches on the coffee table and go back for the smoothies.
Taking the seat beside her, I reach for her legs, intending to drape them over mine, but instead she crawls into my lap, whining softly.
“You need to eat,” I tell her, holding her in place with my arm while I lean forward and pick up a sandwich for her.
Reluctantly taking it from me, she brings it to her mouth and takes a tentative bite, while I reach for a sandwich for myself, humming appreciatively when the salty bacon, gooey cheese, and creamy egg hits my taste buds.
Stroking her hair with my free hand, we eat in relative silence until she freezes, her sandwich midway to her mouth.
“I’m going to puke,” she declares, throwing the sandwich onto the platter as she clambers off my lap and rushes for the washroom.
Pushing the last bite of my own sandwich into my mouth, I follow after her, reaching to pull her hair back as she regurgitates the sandwich and a couple of bottles of champagne into the toilet. Her skin is clammy and pale by the time she finishes puking, and I help her get cleaned up before I carry her back to the couch, settling her under a blanket with her head in my lap.
