Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 124005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 620(@200wpm)___ 496(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 620(@200wpm)___ 496(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
The room tilts perilously as I push to my feet and wobble-weave to the bathroom. I slam the door, the noise reverberating in my head. I make it to the toilet in time to unload a stomach of bile. I heave until there’s nothing left. A full bottle of water sits on the vanity. With trembling hands I twist off the cap, rinse my mouth, then tentatively take a few sips.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. My mascara is smeared under my bloodshot eyes, my hair is a complete wreck, and my skin is pale and blotchy. I look rough. And based on my lack of memory, I’m guessing I was shitfaced.
A tube of toothpaste and an unopened toothbrush sit on the counter, with a second used one beside it. I remove the fresh one from the package, squirt a little toothpaste onto the brush, and scrub away the gross fuzz and horrible taste in my mouth. I brush far longer than necessary, mostly to avoid dealing with the man on the other side of the door.
Even the taste of toothpaste makes me want to throw up again, but I take a few deep breaths and steel myself as I open the door.
Dallas is sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing his navy and pale blue plaid dress pants, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. His head lifts, and his guilty expression makes my stomach lurch again. “Are you okay?”
I tug at the hem of his shirt. “How did I get into this T-shirt?” The black hole where the answer should be scares the hell out of me. Whenever we’re out, I limit myself to one drink, two at the very most, and only on the rarest of occasions. Who knows what I could’ve said to Dallas last night. To anyone, for that matter.
He pushes to his feet and shoves one of his hands into his luxurious wavy hair, causing his biceps to flex and his abs to ripple. Despite how disgusting I feel, I appreciate how frustratingly attractive this man is. To this day he’s still the embodiment of a prom king.
“Seriously, Dallas. I’m freaking out here.”
He moves into my personal space. “I would never touch you without your permission, Wilhelmina. And last night, you were in no condition to give it.” He holds out his hand. “Now, please sit down so I can explain without worrying about you passing out.”
I let him guide me to a chair. He passes me a bottle of water and sits on the arm of the couch. “When we got back here, you weren’t in the best form.”
I cross my arms and try to keep my mortification from showing on my face. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been throw-up drunk in my entire life. I do not like to lose control. “That does not explain how I got into this shirt.” My voice wavers with fresh anxiety. What did I do last night? Did I throw myself at Dallas while I was drunk?
Dallas’s gaze lifts to the ceiling before dropping to meet mine again. “You threw up. Some of it got on your clothes. Which understandably made you upset. Then you took your dress off.”
“I got naked in front of you?” My voice is dog-whistle pitched.
“Not naked. I stopped you before you got further than your dress. You were not in any shape to know what you were doing, so I walked you to the bathroom and cleaned you up as best I could, then took my shirt off and gave it to you.” He runs his tongue over his eye-tooth but doesn’t look away. “But in the interest of full transparency, your coordination was not great. You were having trouble getting into my shirt, so I had to help you with my eyes closed.”
I cover my mouth with my palm. “Oh my God.” The only time I’ve been more humiliated was senior year and yesterday when I got engaged. Ironically, those horrible situations also involved Dallas.
He rubs his bottom lip, expression full of empathy and regret. I want to believe it’s real.
“I understand that I’m probably the last person you would want to take care of you. But I couldn’t leave you alone last night. All I did was clean you up, help you get into my shirt, and put you to bed. I had your dress sent out to dry cleaning once you were settled.”
“That’s all that happened?” I croak.
He wets his bottom lip. “Yes. Mostly.”
“Mostly?” I narrow my eyes.
“I was worried about you rolling onto your back in the middle of the night.”
When he doesn’t continue right away, I make a go-on motion. “Spit it out, Dallas.”
“You kept trying to roll onto your back. Even when I put pillows behind you, you pushed them out of the way, so eventually I just spooned you.”