Page 36 of My Dream

Fallon’s smile widened, and she leaned in to press a soft kiss to my lips. Her touch lingered, warm and sweet, and it sent a shiver down my spine. “Tonight’s going to be fun. I promise.”

I wrapped my arm tighter around her and squeezed her to me. “Oh hell yeah, it is.”

Chapter Fourteen

Fallon

My mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and my head pounded like a freight train was barreling straight through it. Every throb felt worse than the last. “Argh,” I moaned and tried to burrow deeper into the bed.

The pillow under my head chuckled.

“No noise,” I whispered hoarsely. “Water. Need water.” My plea sounded pitiful even to me.

“I gotta get up then, babe.”

“No moving,” I mumbled against his chest.

The pillow—no, Compass—laughed again. The sound was deep and rich and cut through the fog in my brain.

“Why did you let me drink last night?” I demanded weakly.

“Babe, you didn’t ask for permission, and if you had, I would’ve stopped you after four shots.”

“Oh, the shots,” I groaned. “Why did we do shots?”

Once the camera crew had finally cleared out last night, the girls had let loose. We’d all decided to forget about the cameras for a while, and things had gotten… spirited. Nothing that would get us banned from prime-time reality TV, but enough to make my current state of misery worth it.

“All of the other girls better be feeling like dog poop, too,” I grumbled and rolled onto my side.

Compass shifted and slipped out of the bed. I burrowed under the covers to avoid the cold void where his warmth had been. I groaned in protest but didn’t open my eyes. I listened as he padded into the bathroom. The sound of running water and the rattle of pills filled the silence before he reappeared.

“Drink this,” he said softly. “I should’ve made you drink a glass of water before you passed out.”

I tried to sit up, but my body felt like a sack of wet sand. “How are you not hungover?” I asked and cracked open one eye to glare at him.

Compass looked annoyingly perfect. Not a single trace of a hangover in sight. His hair was tousled, his eyes bright, and his smirk firmly in place. And he was shirtless.

Whoa, boy.

“I only had a few beers, babe,” he said. He was far too smug.

I scoffed and snatched the pills from his hand. I tossed them in my mouth and resisted the gag. “Nec tim ew argh dinking,” I mumbled incoherently and tipped the glass to my lips.

I drank the water greedily and finished the whole glass in a few gulps. The cool liquid was a small mercy that soothed my parched throat. I set the empty glass on the nightstand and flopped back against the pillows.

“Better?” Compass asked.

“Marginally,” I grumbled. “Still dying, though.”

He chuckled again and sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re not dying. You’re just hungover.”

“Feels like the same thing.”

Compass reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face. His touch was gentle, and for a moment, the freight train in my head slowed.

“You’ll survive,” he said with a small smile. “You just need greasy food and more water. Maybe coffee.”

“Maybe a new head,” I muttered and closed my eyes again.

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