Page 70 of Dr. Fellow

Rolling toward the muffled voice, I say a small prayer that it’s not a random chick next to me. The last person that I remember talking to was Morgan, but she refused to sleep here the first night, so it’s entirely possible that I’ve got a stranger in my bed . . .

When I finally open my eyes again, the room blurs into a bright haze. Squinting, I focus on the figure huddled beneath the silken sheets next to me. It’s Morgan, unmistakably—I’d know those stubby fingers shielding her eyes anywhere. But she must be just as bad off as I am because she’s grumbling about something incoherently.

“What?” I manage to croak out, my throat dry as fuck.

She sighs, peeling her fingers apart to peek through the slit between them. “Please go get the door. I think I’m dying.”

That explains the pounding.

I push myself into a sitting position, immediately regretting the quick movement when the room begins to spin.

Jesus Christ—are hangovers worse in your thirties? My skull feels like it has been split open with a blunt axe.

I brace myself with one hand on the nightstand, waiting for the dizziness to pass before I swing my legs off the bed. The cold floor is a minor shock to my system, but it helps anchor my body slightly as I stand.

Morgan groans again, yanking the pillow over her head. “Hurry, please.”

I shuffle across the room, each step feeling like a monumental task. By the time I crack open the door, I’m ready to sell my soul for a glass of water and a lifetime supply of aspirin.

“You look like you got run over by a bus,” Beau greets me with a level of cheer that’s far too aggressive for my current state. Dressed in only gray sweatpants and tennis shoes, he looks like he’s been up and active for hours.

Fucker.

I reach for the door, ready to close it on his chipper face, but he sticks his foot out to stop me.

“Oh no you don’t.”

I lean against the wooden frame for support, blinking at him through the crack.

“Is there something you want?” I grumble. “Because if not, you can fuck right off.”

“Claire sent me to find Morg,” he explains, brown eyes attempting to see into the room behind me. “Do you know where she is?”

His grin broadens like he already knows the answer to his question, and if I had the strength, I would kick him in the nuts for being a shit-stirrer.

“I’m sure she’s fine wherever she is,” I snap back, not in the mood to entertain his buffoonery.

“Easy, killer,” he chuckles, dismissing my irritation with a carefree shrug. “Well, breakfast is ready in the kitchen for everyone. It’s almost eleven, and we’ve gotta head out by two.”

My stomach twists, either from nausea, or the realization that I’ve never slept this late in my life. What time did we even get back last night?

“Thanks. I’ll be out in a few.”

Beau nods, clapping me on the shoulder in a way that’s probably meant to be encouraging, but feels more like a punishment to my aching body. “You need anything? A big ol’ hug? Some water? A condom?”

Gritting my teeth, I mutter a goodbye and shut the door before he can throw another jab. Leaning back against it, I take a deep breath and try to gather the energy to move back across the room.

“I’m never drinking again,” Morgan whines into her hands. She’s managed to sit up, her body drowning in my white dress shirt from last night.

The sight of her in my clothes sends an unexpected rush of arousal through me, despite the rest of my body screaming that I’m at death’s door.

Echoing her sentiment, I grab two water bottles from the wet bar and hand one to her before unscrewing the cap of mine to take a deep gulp.

Returning to bed, I settle against the headboard and let out a long sigh like I’m trying to expel the demons from within. Morgan slips her hand over my thigh, conveying a silent thank you with a squeeze. Despite our misery, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be—just the two of us in our peaceful bubble, postponing reality a bit longer.

“Your phone pinged while you were talking to the brute.”

A smirk tugs at my lips. “You heard that, did you?”

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