Hard Checked (Ice Kings #4) - Stacey Lynn Page 0,8

these for you on the nightstand.”

I peer down at the piece of furniture she’s talking about and arch a brow when I look back at her.

She laughs, and there’s something about her voice I like. It’s low. A little husky. Definitely not high-pitched or whiny or refined. It’s nice.

It’s at least not making my hangover worse.

“Okay. I’m a lousy housekeeper and I despise cleaning. But do you need them?”

“Yeah.” I shrug my sweatshirt over my head and yank it down, dodging high-heeled shoes and boots and jeans and sweaters on the floor while Gigi grins at me.

I take the pills and water from her.

“Thank you. I think there might be parts of the night that are hazy to me—”

“No need to freak out. I slept on the couch. Was barely able to get you up here. And before you ask, there was no way I was putting you in an Uber in your condition. As much as I tried to get you to stop drinking, well, it seemed like you needed it.”

“Good.” I sigh and then cringe. “Not that…”

“You’re married and a good guy, Sebastian. Nothing happened and you didn’t try, and even if you had, I would have still slept on the couch and tossed you into my bed. No harm, I promise.”

Something settles in my stomach. Everything she says is a relief. Except for the fact I’m not married. Or won’t be soon. “Thanks, Gigi.”

“No problem. I’ve made some sausage and eggs and toast. Want anything?”

My stomach turns at the thought of putting anything into it. “Actually, I could use the restroom. And then I’ll decide.”

“Right that way.” She flings out her arm and gestures to a door beyond the curved entrance to her bedroom area.

I step around her, scrubbing my hair and trying to clear my throat. It’s almost as dry as my eyes.

This isn’t me. I don’t get passed out, blackout drunk with a woman who isn’t my wife. Hell, I don’t with my wife. I have an excuse, but I hate this feeling. Even more, the awkwardness of knowing for the first time since I was fifteen years old I’ve spent the night with another woman… sleeping arrangements aside, I’ve done it.

That thought alone makes me want to puke more than the alcohol still sloshing in my gut.

I feel slightly better after using the restroom, washing my face with some bright orange face wash bottle on Gigi’s tiny bathroom counter and hijacking her toothpaste so I can give my teeth a quick scrub with my finger. I still taste and smell the bourbon seeping through my pores, and my eyes are still killing me. A quick dig through a basket of products she has on the floor beneath her sink tells me she doesn’t have eyedrops, so I’m out of luck there, but at least when I give myself a quick glance in the mirror I look slightly more human than before.

All I need to do is get home and spend the day sleeping and I’ll be back and ready for another game tomorrow. Thank God I at least have today off other than a workout I’ll throw in later—puking or not.

Heading out of the bathroom, I catch sight of her messy, open bedroom again before turning to the other direction and seeing quite possibly the world’s smallest living area that contains a loveseat and a chair.

A bookshelf is next to the chair, filled with so many books facing every which way the shelves heave from the weight of them. There are several piles of books on the floor. A few litter the small round coffee table in front of the couch and I’m pretty sure next to the loveseat, she’s using another stack of books as a side table.

There are more bright colors, something that surprises me about Gigi. She’s always dressed in black. The only color she wears on her is in her hair and a tattoo on her upper arm.

With her penchant for traveling frequently, I would expect her apartment to be bare-bones, ready to empty at a moment’s notice, not packed to the gills with knick-knacks and posters and artwork and photos all over her walls… and books. So many books.

Not that I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about Gigi and where she would live, but I’ve come to know her some over the last year since she showed up at George’s Bar and pole vaulted herself over it to hug her dad who was giving her shit, squinting at