“It’s not that serious. Really. I’ll feel better in like ten minutes.” I cover my face with my hands. If Bradley weren’t there, I’d let out a scream. “I’m so embarrassed. I’m never like this.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I don’t get why she didn’t get sick, though. She was drinking just as fast.”
“Grace?” He laughs like he always does, but this time his eyes remain cold. “Those were mocktails. She doesn’t drink. Christ, I can’t believe she could be so cruel. She never pays attention to what other people are feeling. Unless it’s something for her books, she just tunes us all out.”
I look at him, surprised that someone could so completely misunderstand their own spouse. Because I’m positive that Grace doesn’t miss a thing. Maybe she didn’t want to make me vomit, but she was willing to risk it to see what would happen.
“It’s like living with a child,” he continues, then looks down at me. “Sorry, I’ll be quiet.”
“Don’t.”
He touches my forehead, then laughs. “Sorry, you’re not sick, are you? I was testing for fever.”
“Stop apologizing.”
“I can’t help it. You could sue us.”
“Interesting idea,” I say, and he laughs.
“Please don’t.”
I suddenly realize my dress is hitched up much higher than I’d like. I wriggle up the bed a little so that it covers another inch of my thigh.
“Anyway, I wouldn’t have much of a case,” I say. “I’m feeling better now.”
“You were looking terrible before.” I instinctively wince when I hear this, and he must notice, because he quickly backpedals. “It wasn’t that bad. You still looked beautiful. You look even more beautiful now, but it’s all on the same, er, breathtaking spectrum.”
Beautiful. Breathtaking. Did Bradley really just say that?
“Thanks.”
After a few seconds of silence, Bradley laughs. “I just made things very awkward, didn’t I? How about I do a party trick to make up for it?”
“What?”
“I’ll recite a poem from memory. Anything moderately famous written before 1870. Shakespeare, Milton, Keats.”
I look from his dark eyes to his lips and feel a rush of panic. He’s looked after me, carried me upstairs, and called me breathtaking. If he starts reciting poetry, I might develop a genuine crush on this man, and that’s the last thing I need.
“No, it’s OK.”
“What can I do, then?”
Kiss me. Take off your shirt. Touch me. “Maybe get me some water?”
As soon as he leaves the room, I cover my face and swear. Having an attractive boss is one thing, but actively wanting to jump his bones is another. I need to get out of here before I make a fool of myself.
I sit up and blink through the dizziness. I’m feeling shaky, but otherwise a lot better. I need this night to be over. Grace basically got me drunk for sport, and here I am, lying in their marital bed, thinking about what her husband looks like naked.
Footsteps in the hallway. I swing my feet to the floor and look directly into a mirror on their wardrobe door. If I were someoneelse, looking like I do in this dress, feeling this way, I might try to seduce him. Not here and now, of course—but I might sow the seeds. If my breath still didn’t reek of vomit, I might even let him kiss me.
Would he be tempted? And is that what I am, a temptress?
Of course not. Bradley is in a different league. He’s married to a beautiful, brilliant, and exciting—if completely unhinged—artist. Why would he ever want me?
“What are you doing?” Bradley appears in the doorway with a tall glass of water. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
