Page 27 of Studious
“Good morning, sleepyhead.”
“How did I get here?”
Again, that quiet, sexy chuckle. “You had a bit too much to drink at the office happy hour last night, so I brought you here. I texted your mom, too, so she wouldn’t be worried.”
My head feels fuzzy. He… texted my mom? What? I’m so confused. “Am I fired?”
He’d been raising a cup of coffee to his lips but stops. “No! Why would you say that?”
“Pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to get so drunk at an office party that I can’t even remember the end of it. I don’t normally drink very much. I guess I overestimated my ability to keep up.”
“You’re fine. It was pretty much just you, me, and Shelby at the end, so not many people probably even noticed. Well, there were a few who saw me carry you out of the building, but they don’t know you.”
My cheeks heat up so fast it’s like they’re going to explode. “Oh, God,” I whisper. “I’m so embarrassed.”
He gives me this kind, genuine smile. I don’t know if it makes me feel better or worse. “We’ve all been there, and I don’t think anyone will judge you. I think maybe you needed to cut loose a little bit. That’s all. It’ll be forgotten.”
But I’m not going to forget waking up here. Did he sleep in the same bed as me? The way the room was decorated, it didn’t seem like a guest room. I look around and see a pillow and some blankets on his couch. I point at them. “Did I do that? Make you sleep on your couch?”
He nods, and when he sees me open my mouth to apologize, says, “Don’t. It was no big deal. It’s a very nice couch.”
“Did you change my clothes?”
“I did, but I tried to not linger, if you know what I mean. You were pretty out of it, though, and I didn’t think you could sleep comfortably in a suit and tie.”
“I couldn’t. Thank you.” I try to figure out what I feel about him seeing me undressed. It certainly flusters me, because I wonder what he thought. I’m happy he got me out of my suit, though. His clothes feel oh so good. They’re big, but they smell like him, and I don’t want to take them off.
“Here,” he says, rummaging in the refrigerator and then handing me a cold Gatorade. “Drink. Slowly. You need to get some fluids in you.”
I nod and take a sip.
“How do you feel?”
I rub my free hand over my face. “I feel like someone put out a hit on me, but the hit man changed his mind halfway through and didn’t finish the job.”
He chuckles. “You’re funny. Drink that while I finish making breakfast.”
While I still feel like Satan’s asshole, at least the liquid tastes good. I take a seat on a barstool and watch Danny cook.
This feels so intimate. I’ve never had a man cook for me before—not like this. I barely even slept over at friends’ houses when I was a kid. I’m very inexperienced ineverything.
“I’m just so sorry,” I say again.
“Don’t be. I think you need to get some food in that stomach after you get rehydrated. And greasy food often does the trick for a hangover. Hence, bacon and eggs. You’re not allergic, right?”
“No allergies, although I don’t eat bacon.”
“Okay. More for me. Are you Jewish?”
“Yeah. I don’t follow most of the rules or go to services more than a few times a year, but I grew up not eating pork or shellfish, and it kind of stuck.”
“Fair enough. My mom still does fish on Fridays because we’re Catholic.” He finishes scrambling the eggs and then plates them along with grilled mushrooms (plus bacon for him) and toast. He puts the dishes on the table and adds a little bowl of fruit salad next to each.
I stare at the fluffy pile of eggs and the mushrooms and stack of toast jostling for space. You basically can’t see the plate. “There’s no way I can eat this much.”
“Then don’t. I won’t be offended. I know you’re not feeling great. Just eat what you can. It’ll stabilize your blood sugar and make you feel better.”
He sits across from me, still mostly naked.
