I watch as the man scrambles to find something to retrieve his phone without touching it. It makes me feel a little bad, but not bad enough to ditch Decker and Joss and dig it out myself. Decker fumes as I stare at him wide-eyed. That may have been an overreaction, but it’s not like the stranger can’t retrieve the footage from his storage cloud later. Joss gags again, her hand pressing to her lips. She squeezes her eyes shut and then swallows.
“We need to get her back to your place,” I tell him.
Decker nods and scoops her up. I only glance back once at the man behind us who has fallen to his knees, staring aimlessly at his soiled phone. In no time, we’re back in his apartment, shoving past a wide-eyed Cole and down the congested hall to Decker’s room. Gently, he lays Joss on the gray chaise by the window so her head is propped up and springs into action. I sit by her, pulling her hair into a messy ponytail as Decker disappears into his bathroom. He comes back with a trash can and two little trash bags, as well as a hand towel and a damp cloth for her face.
“Dr. Decker in the house,” I say, a little bit impressed by his swiftness.
He flashes me a grin as he pulls out his phone. “You should see the guys on karaoke night. This isn’t my first rodeo, Lena.”
A moment later there’s a soft tap on the door and Cole appears with a peanut butter sandwich and three bottled waters hooked between his thick fingers. “She okay?”
Joss peeks her eyes open long enough to see Cole, another groan rolling from her lips as she presses her fingers to her eyes and covers her face.
“She will be. Trust me, it would’ve ended worse if she did the backflip.” I take the trash can from Decker and move it to Joss's side.
Cole drops his goods on top of the dresser before heading for the door. “Just let me know if there’s anything else I can do for her.”
“Thank you,” I say as he backs out into the hall.
“What time do you have to get up in the morning?” Decker asks me, his voice almost a whisper.
I eye Joss on the chaise, her body still, her breathing evening out. Is she falling asleep already?
“Like 5:00 a.m.,” I say.
He scrunches his face. “Tomorrow’s an off day for me, so I was planning on sleeping in.”
“You can. It’s not like you’re going with me.”
“You’ll set an alarm, I assume. And I’m guessing it’ll wake me up too.”
“Wake you up?” My brows bunch. “I’m not staying here.”
Shouts and squeals ring out from the kitchen, making me wonder what we’re missing out on. Something scratches the door, and when Decker opens it, it’s an alarmed Princess.
“No one can get any decent sleep here. I’m already up too late.” I cross my arms and cock my hip. This was not part of the plan. This was not in our guidelines. We never discussed a sleepover.
Princess waltzes over and licks my leg. My puke-covered leg. I back away in an attempt to save Princess from herself and to keep from hurling myself.
Decker frowns like I’ve just slapped him across the face.
I throw an arm in the dog’s direction. “I’m not rejecting Princess. She’s lickingmy legs!”
A strangled sound of disgust squeaks from his throat. As horrified as I am by the vomit and the dog and everything else, I have to hold back a laugh. Decker grimaces and scoops Princess up like she’s not fifty-plus pounds, depositing her in the bathroom and shutting the door.
More screams echo from the kitchen as heavy bass rattles the walls.
“Lena, it’s late. You need to sleep. Joss is already asleep. Princess isn’t having fun.” He runs a hand through his dark hair. “I’m not even at my own party. Just stay the night, go to your fitting in the morning, your recording session in the afternoon. I’ll make sure Joss makes it home safe. Or she can leave when you do. Whatever.”
I hesitate, but I know he’s right, regardless of how much it stirs the nervous little butterflies in my stomach. What’s the point in going home when all I’m doing is losing more sleep? If I’m ever going to nail this rerecording in the “new direction” it’s supposed to be going in, I need to at the very least be rested. That and actually want to rerecord the whole thing, but the latter isn’t going to happen anytime soon.
“Fine,” I agree.
A smile splits his face. “There are towels in the bathroom closet. You can use anything in there you want. Should be a pack of new toothbrushes under the sink.” He points across the room. “My shirts are in the dresser. Shorts, boxers, all that. Take what you want. Now go wash that barf off. I’ll be right back.”
He doesn’t wait for me to protest, just disappears into the hall. A minute later the blaring music silences, the yells become murmurs, and eventually—as I finally duck into the bathroom and free Princess—there’s not a sound coming from the party at all. He’s killed it.
I debate not washing my hair, but once the warm water is pouring over my back, it feels too good not to scrub every inch of my body. It’s been a long day, and the filth Joss so kindly spilled across my calves has left me feeling a little more than disgusting. Decker has an impressive collection in his shower. Shampoo and conditioner—none of that two-in-one stuff that’s targeted at unsuspecting men. No wonder his hair is always so nice—as well as face washes, scrubs, and three types of body wash to choose from. Sure, I’ll smell like a dude after this, but I’ve smelled Decker. My mind flashes back to yesterday, a warmth spreading through my belly as I remember the feel of him under me during our little photo shoot. Decker smellsgood, and anything smells better than Joss's stomach contents.
