inside, even if my head claimed I was still in the falling in love stage.
But to tell Xander that, after such a brief period of time?
I’m going to be sick.
This could have ruined everything. Yes, he was falling too, I’m sure of that, but to go ahead and just proclaim it to his face? And whilst in a drunken state?
I’m going to vomit. And cry.
Probably at the same time.
I stare down at the card in my hand. What if this is him telling me last night was too much? I can only imagine what he’s thinking. I’m proclaiming love for him, and I got drunk in front of his aunt, a senior member of the royal family.
Helene. Wait a minute. Another flash comes to mind. I see myself on the floor of Helene’s living room. I was crawling on her floor.
I don’t remember why, but I was crawling on her floor?
Lord, what did Xander think about that?
I don’t want to know.
I suddenly get a bad feeling. What if this note is of the “we need to talk about last night” variety?
Dread consumes me. This can’t be good. It can’t.
With a shaking hand, I open the note and begin to read:
Sunshine,
On the bedside table, there’s a bottle of water and some paracetamol. Should help if you have a headache. I’m downstairs in the kitchen. Will make you something to eat when you are ready.
Xander
P.S. I will not hold you to anything you said last night. Except for having sex on the desk. That one I WILL hold you to. I’ll even push off the papers in a fit of passion to properly fulfill your fantasy.
He won’t hold me to anything I said. Relief sweeps through me. He’s not bothered by the fact that I uttered those three life-changing words. Xander has simply ticked that off to being drunk.
I sit up. But did I mean them? If I said them at my most unfiltered, does it mean I love this man already? And should I confess it if that’s the truth?
I draw a breath of air as I consider this. No. I will only tell him when my head is sure. That is the logical thing to do, and it takes pressure off us. That’s logical. Careful. Practical.
So why does my heart squeeze a little bit at the idea of shoving it aside?
I’m a fool. I reach for the packet of tablets and pop two into the palm of my hand. Then I grab the water, twist the cap, and take the paracetamol, hoping it will ease the throbbing in my head.
Next, I go to the loo and nearly scream when I see my reflection in the mirror. Oh, my Christ. My hair is half in pins, halfway out, and bedraggled. My red lipstick is smeared across my chin. My mascara is underneath my eyes, making me look like I got punched in the face. My foundation has started to break apart on my skin, settling in creases and giving me the appearance of a seventy-year-old woman. My dress is wrinkled, too.
Xander saw me like this last night.
So. Humiliating.
Luckily, I had planned to stay over, so my overnight bag is here. I retrieve my personal items and then turn on the shower, vowing to scrub all the evidence of last night’s stupidity down the drain. I yank out all the pins from my hair and brush it. I lay out my clothing for today—a pair of jeans and a simple yellow T-shirt—and pop into the hot shower.
Even though my head is killing me, I begin to feel a bit better. Maybe some food will help.
I slip out of the shower and dry off with a thick, plush towel. I have to say, Xander’s towels are top-notch. The exact opposite of the ones that I buy on sale at the supermarket.
I go about getting ready. I slip into my clothes. Comb out my wet hair. Brush my teeth for like five minutes, as my mouth feels disgusting.
Now it’s time to face Xander.
I steel myself. He’s not mad. I can tell that much from his note. But what does he think of all my loving proclamations from last night? I try to think of any replies he made, but I can’t. He must not have said anything.
Which is what I want. I don’t want him to say things he doesn’t feel.
So why does that thought sting?
Ugh, I’m being weirdly emotional and dumb. This is all for the best—if we can forget any of this