I close my eyes and feel a little better. All light hurts, even the slight glow from the hallway, and it’s easier not to focus on anything. Especially Tucker’s face. I don’t like how pained he looks.
I want to know why that seems to hurt him, but I honestly don’t have the brain power or energy to read between the lines right now.
“Phoebe—”
“Was I bad last night?”
“What?”
“You called me Phoebe.”
He pauses, and I almost open my eyes until he says, “That’s your name.”
“But you usually call me Yellow Crayon.”
I open one eye to watch as he rubs his hand down his face. His perfectly handsome face, even with his scar and stubble.
“We just slept last night. I’m not going to have you when you’re too drunk to remember it.”
It would sound sweet if I didn’t know he’d never give himself to me fully. But then it hits me.
“We slept in your bed? Why didn’t you just put me in here?”
“Because.”
And we’re back to cryptic. Maybe I should turn the tables to get him drunk like he did me last night. I put the pieces together after the second shot with Nancy last night. “I—”
My phone rings with a shrill so loud that I swear my head is about to crack right down the middle.
“Oh my God, that is such a stupid ringtone. Why do I have to keep it at full blast volume?” I groan and reach to stop it before my brain oozes out onto his guest bed. “Sarah?”
“Phoebe, there’s a man here, and he’s pissed. Like, really pissed. He screamed at me because he needs two hundred cupcakes, but I can’t find an order. He’s demanding to speak to you. In person. Right now.”
The tears can be heard through her tone, and even though I’m not in a great position to deal with an angry customer, it’s my business. This is my responsibility. “Okay, I’ll be right there.”
“What’s going on?” Tucker asks as I toss my phone onto the bed.
I climb off the bed and walk into the bathroom. Splashing cold water onto my face helps a bit. Not a lot, but at least I’m more awake. Now, I need pants.
“I need to go to the shop. There’s some customer screaming at Sarah. Any chance you can bring me? I don’t think my eyes will open fully in the sunlight.”
“Yeah, but we’ll need to take your car. I don’t know that you’ll be all that steady on the back of my bike.”
Swishing mouthwash, I swallow the bile climbing up my throat at the alcohol taste. Just what I need. An endless cycle of trying to freshen my breath and throwing up.
“Wait,” I say, turning to face him as he leans against the doorframe. “You said I couldn’t ride on the bike last night. How’d we get home?”
His smile nearly melts me, and he chuckles. “It was a fun game of musical cars.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I had to call Zep, who came and got us in Misty’s car. Then, after I put you in bed because you passed out, he drove me back to the bar to get my bike. Then I came home and helped you throw up twice before putting you back to bed.”
My stomach churns at the idea, and I barely make it to the toilet in time. If I were Tucker, I’d run away. Leave me alone to handle things on my own, but he holds back my hair and rubs my back instead.
“Don’t fight it. It’ll only make it worse,” he says, his voice soft.
It’s such a caring gesture, but I also remember how he told me last night that we’re only in a temporary situation.
