to my neck and around until he gathered my hair and held it loosely.
“You’re home safe and sound just like I promised. I have to get to work but I wanted to see if you needed anything before I took off.”
“Work? It’s morning?”
“Just after eight.”
“You spent the night.”
Duh. It was eight in the morning. Of course Luke spent the night. I was suddenly grateful I had a splitting headache and a hangover from hell. It gave me an excuse not to open my eyes. And when Luke went on, I was doubly happy I wasn’t looking at him.
“How much do you remember about last night?”
I tried to think back but the bits and pieces and flashes of me drinking and us playing pool were mostly a blur and the harder I thought the queasier my stomach got.
“Not much after our second game. But enough to remember I kicked your ass the first round and barely lost the second.”
Then I’d switched to tequila—and tequila and I were friends. I got chatty when I drank tequila. I was a happy drunk—that was, when I let myself get drunk which was normally saved for special occasions.
“Last night you said you didn’t work today.”
“Is it still Wednesday?”
“Yeah, babe, it’s still Wednesday.”
“Then no, I don’t work today.”
A full day off, which was awesome because I didn’t think it was possible to get out of bed.
“Good. There’s water, OJ, toast, and Tylenol on your nightstand. When you can open your eyes, drink the water, eat the toast, and wash the Tylenol down with the OJ. I’ll be back around later and I’ll bring dinner.”
“Don’t say dinner, or toast, or water. As a matter of fact, no more talking at all. My head is going to explode.”
“Okay, babe. No more talking. See you later.” And with that, the bed shifted and a moment later Luke’s lips brushed my forehead. “Sleep.”
Apparently, Luke had superpowers because my body obeyed and I didn’t hear him leave.
Hours later I woke up no less hungover but I no longer felt like I was going to vomit.
But the room was still spinning.
Or maybe it was my life that was spinning out of control and now I was feeling the physical manifestation of months’ worth of denial.
Maybe my life was in the toilet and instead of figuring out what was going on, I was behaving like a coward with my hand on the flusher ready and willing to push it and watch all my hard work spiral down the porcelain.
Weak.
One explanation that was unacceptable, yet it was true.
I tossed the covers off, caught sight of my jeans, and last night rushed back in an unfortunate stream of humiliation.
I was fully dressed, just like Luke had promised I’d be.
I had no doubt my car was in my garage.
And I had a sickening suspicion I knew why Luke had stayed the night. I hadn’t been drunk. Drunk didn’t cover what I’d been. More like blotto. Totally smashed.
Shit.
He probably thought I was going to puke in my sleep and die.
Shame washed over me.
I never lost control to that extent. Never, ever.
And since I never had, I was seriously worried I’d talked too much. Told Luke things I would never tell him sober.
That thought got me moving. In record time I was in the shower on a fool’s errand. I washed and scrubbed but the shame clung to my skin. Not the morning-after-walk-of-shame kind. No, this was worse. I’d gladly take tromping out of a man’s house in last night’s clothes holding my high heels—not that I wore high heels but for the purpose of my misery I did—into an awaiting Uber. I’d be more than happy to see the driver’s knowing smirk aimed my way as he drove me home with the knowledge I got myself a little something-something. I reckoned that would be uncomfortable but I could only guess because I’d never experienced it.
My shame came in the form of words—too many of them spoken.
Unguarded.
My shower hadn’t helped.
Water, toast, OJ, and Tylenol didn’t help.
Neither did doing laundry, washing dishes, vacuuming, dusting, nor did mopping. All my day-off chores succeeded in doing was cause my head to throb worse. By the time five-thirty rolled around I was sitting on my couch trying to come up with an excuse to call Luke and tell him not to come by. Of course, the truth would be too embarrassing.
I’d almost come up with a plausible lie when there was a knock at my front door. Then it swung open and