was out of my bed. He finished off his coffee, his gray eyes boring into mine over the mug’s rim.
He hadn’t left with the brunette. He’d seen someone trying to drug me and stepped in to prevent them doing worse. He took care of me, stayed up all night to make sure I was OK . . .
I frowned at him, trying to figure it out. We’d hardly spoken, had two admittedly hot but mostly rage-fueled hookups. He’d said on more than one occasion that he wanted nothing to do with me, and I couldn’t count the number of times I’d wished he’d just disappear and stop complicating my life.
He returned my frown, leaning back against the desk. “Look, believe what you want, but that’s the truth.”
“I believe you,” I rushed out. “I’m just . . . not feeling the best.”
His cloudy expression lifted, and he got to his feet. “No wonder. Nausea and fatigue are common aftereffects of being roofied. It’s like an extremely bad hangover—you might be super tired for a few days and nauseated, and you might have diarrhea. I can take you to the hospital to get checked out if you want.”
“No.” I shook my head, immediately regretting it as pain shot through my skull. “That was a good call. No hospital. No records. No one can know about this. And please never talk to me about having the runs again. Just . . . drive me to my car. What time is it?” Eventually someone would come knocking on my bedroom door.
“Your secret’s safe with me, princess. You can shower if you want.” He pointed to a closed door next to his desk. “I’ll get you some breakfast. I have better shit to do with my time than play Driving Miss Daisy today, but you’ve had a rough night, so I’ll cut you some slack and drive you to your carriage.”
Despite the horrid way I felt, the hint of a smile pulled at my lips. Snark was familiar territory for us, and it was making me feel better.
He collected his empty mug; gave me an exaggerated, mocking bow; and closed the door with a soft click on his way out.
I checked my phone and cringed. It was just after nine. Harlow would still be in bed, and Mom and Dad had mentioned brunch with the Frydenbergs. I’d been planning to be in bed when they left, but now I probably had two hours max before they got home. I hoped that was enough time to drive to Davey’s and back.
But first—shower. I could’ve skipped it to save time, but I felt gross, dirty. I dragged my ass out of Hendrix’s bed, doing my best not to think about the fact that I was in Hendrix’s bed, in his room, in his house. What would he be doing if I wasn’t here?
In the bathroom, a wave of nausea hit me so fucking hard I literally collapsed onto the floor. Luckily, I was close enough to the toilet that I was able to get to it before I vomited, my stomach spasming violently.
Once I was positive I was done puking, I pulled myself to my feet and found a clean towel and some dark gray sweats folded neatly on the counter. I frowned, struggling to reconcile this thoughtful side of him with the antagonistic prick I’d gotten to know and . . . er . . . just know.
After a quick shower where I was forced to use his shampoo and bodywash, I dressed quickly, pulling the sweatshirt over my head. When I paused and brought the fabric up to my nose—closing my eyes and inhaling the fresh, clean scent with just a hint of cinnamon—I froze.
The mindless act had me wondering if I hadn’t been given some other drug the previous night—one that altered your personality. I scowled at myself in the mirror, wrenched the sweatshirt back off, and threw it into the far corner.
Grudgingly, I pulled my leopard-print dress back on but wore it like a tank, tucked into the too-long borrowed sweats.
I stashed my bra and thong in my purse and headed for the door, but I paused just before my hand touched the doorknob. What if his parents didn’t know I was here? I didn’t want to get him in trouble. I also didn’t want to deal with any more human interaction than absolutely necessary.
Before I could make a decision, the door flew open, nearly whacking me in the nose. “Fuck! Watch it!”