‘You look terrible,’ she announced.
He nodded his head in acceptance, then remembered he was supposed to be furious with her and adopted the appropriate facial expression. ‘You,’ he said, pointing a finger at her, still swaying. ‘You went to the newspaper.’
‘What?’
‘The front page of theNew York Times. You sold your story to a journalist.’
He clamped a hand onto the stair rail to the left of the short run of steps he was stood at the top of. He raised his eyes and found no shock on her face, just a lot of anger.
‘How dare you,’ Hayley stated, shaking her head at him.
‘How dare I? I’m the injured party here,’ Oliver slurred.
‘Look at you! Sponsored by Budweiser and rolling up here throwing accusations about.’
He had no response and his eyes rolled back as balance became a real issue.
‘Get inside,’ she ordered, shifting back from the door and opening it wider. There was no way she was going to have the perfect couple from across the street being witness to this.
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘Because if you make an arse of yourself in front of my brother’s apartment, I’ll never forgive you.’
He lost his footing and stumbled off the top step. Suddenly, his arm was being grabbed and he was pulled forward, up the step he’d fallen down and over the threshold of the apartment.
‘Get up the stairs, go into the bathroom and vomit.’ She sighed. ‘Then I’ll make coffee.’
Just her words made his stomach lurch like he’d come down off the top of a roller coaster. She pushed him in the direction of the stairs and suddenly, he was crawling up them at pace, using the wall for support. He wasn’t sure he was going to make it.
26
DEAN WALKER’S APARTMENT, DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN
Oliver had been in the bathroom for almost twenty minutes before he finally emerged, pale and perspiring. Hayley watched him shuffle towards her and she picked up the tray she’d prepared and turned quickly. She knew her body language was saying ‘angry’ but, in truth, she was feeling much more than that. A small part of her was worried about him. He’d obviously been daytime drinking and that couldn’t be just down to a newspaper article, could it?
‘Sit down before you fall down,’ she ordered, nodding towards one of Dean’s couches.
‘Why does it sound like I don’t have a choice?’ he asked.
‘Because you don’t.’ She brought the coffee pot, mugs, glass of water, Advil and shortbread biscuits over to the coffee table and put the tray down. Then she sat in the nearest chair and watched him gingerly lower himself to the cushioned seat.
‘Feel rough?’ she asked, despite being able to see the answer.
‘Uh-huh.’ He nodded his head then put his hands to it.
‘Room spinning? Walls caving in? Mouth like an under-watered pot plant?’
‘OK, you can really stop now,’ he groaned.
She leant forward on her seat and reached for the glass of water and the painkillers. She held them out. ‘Here, drink this and swallow these.’ His hand shook as he took the glass and when he offered his other, she tipped the pills into his hand.
She watched him put the tablets into his mouth and swallow them down with a couple of gulps of fluid.
‘So, you spent the whole afternoon in a bar and then you came round here to accuse me of speaking to the newspaper.’
He just looked at her, blinking his dark eyelashes over those full, hazel eyes, nothing but vulnerability staring back at her. He looked lost.
‘Can you at least wait until the pills have kicked in?’ He leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands.
