“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Go to sleep, Saramaria,” he murmurs.
I close my eyes. The room is dark. The bed is soft. Rhett is warm.
The alcohol drags me down. The spinning slows.
“Please don’t leave,” I mumble again, the words slurring together.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.
I believe him.
Darkness rushes up to meet me, and I let it take me.
Sunlight hits my eyelids like a sledgehammer. I groan, turning my face away from the window, but the movement sends a spike of pain through my skull. My head feels like it’s been split open and stuffed with cotton.
I try to bury myself deeper into the pillow, seeking the cool side of the mattress, but I realize with a jolt of clarity that I’m not wearing pants.
I peel my eyes open. The room is bright. Too bright. The morning sun is streaming through the slats of the blinds, cutting across the floorboards in geometric beams. I’m in my bedroom. The bedroom Rhett and Boone put back together for me.
I’m lying on top of the quilt. My jeans are gone. My boots are gone. I’m wearing only my T-shirt and a pair of cotton panties.
And there’s an arm around my waist.
It’s heavy, warm, and distinctly male.
I freeze. My heart hammers against my ribs, displacing the hangover headache for a split second of panic. I shift my head slightly.
Rhett is asleep beside me.
He’s lying on his back, one arm thrown over my stomach, pinning me to the mattress. He is fully dressed in the sweatpants and T-shirt he wore last night. He looks peaceful, his breathing deep and even.
“Rhett?” I croak. My voice sounds like sandpaper dragging over gravel.
He stirs. His eyelids flutter. He blinks, his focus sharpening as he sees me.
“Hey,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck,” I mutter. I try to sit up, but the room tilts dangerously. I fall back against the pillow.
“It’s so hot,” I say. It’s true. Even with the window open, my skin feels sensitive, prickling, like there’s an electric current running just beneath the surface.
Rhett reaches out. He places the back of his hand against my forehead.
“You’re a little too warm,” he says, his brow furrowing. “You might have a fever. The tequila probably didn’t help.”
“I don’t get fevers,” I say, though the admission sounds weak even to me. “I get stress headaches.”
“Well, you have a fever now,” he says. He pulls his hand back, brushing a stray hair away from my face. His touch is gentle. Too gentle. It makes my chest ache.
I look at him. I look at the way his arm is still resting on my waist, like he has a right to be there.
“You stayed,” I say.
He pauses. “Of course I stayed.”
“Why?” I ask. “I told you to stay, but I was drunk. You didn’t have to listen.”
