Page 107 of Hate You, Maybe
I drag my gaze away from him to survey the rest of the room. Soft gray walls. White moldings. Streaks of daylight spill through the shutters. “Nice bedroom.”
“I was gonna sleep on the couch, but …”
“You stayed in here instead.” I lift a brow. “On a chair. Watching me sleep?”
“You begged me to.”
“Stay?”
“Yes.”
“Did not.”
“Did so.”
I let out a small squawk. “Then you should have just putmeon the couch.”
“No way.”
“Or you could’ve slept in the bed with me.” I glance around at the king-sized mattress. “It’s huge.”
“Also, no way.”
That’s when I spy a water bottle on the nightstand. My mouth’s full of cotton, and I’m so thirsty, I might cry. “Is this water for me?”
When he nods, I crack it open and drink greedily.
“You already finished another whole one last night. And I gave you a couple Advil, too. I wanted to get ahead of any headache you might wake up with, and I figured ibuprofen was safe enough. For the record, I didnotply you with mangoes.”
I slow my water-gulping, aiming for smaller sips, trying toget a handle on what must have happened since my mind went blank. Tequila Mockingbird. Madelyn. My mother. Ugh.
“You feeling a little better now?” he asks, when most of the water’s gone.
“I think so.” I put the cap on and set the bottle down. “Thanks for not intentionally triggering my allergies.”
“You’re welcome.” He ruffles a hand through his bedhead. Or is it chair-head in this case? Either way.
“Sorry I was such a mess to deal with last night. I’m not really used to being taken care of.”
He’s quiet for a beat. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I mean, Loren would totally look out for me,” I backtrack. “But we’re generally the ones getting in trouble together.”
“Then suffering mutual consequences?”
“Something like that.” My phone’s plugged into a strange charger next to the bed, and I let out a small groan. “Speaking of Loren, I’d better let her know I'm here. She’s got to be worried since I didn’t come home.”
“I messaged her last night,” he says. “She told me I could bring you back to your place, but …”
“You decided to hold me prisoner here, instead?”
“You were already asleep,” he says. “And unlike you, she didn’t beg.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks. “Fair enough.”
“I also took the liberty of texting your mom—from your phone—to let her know you were safe. Maddie told me she was concerned about you after your conversation at the bar.”
Images from my personal wine fest flicker through my head like the world’s most mortifying carousel. And now I kind of wish amnesia were a common problem and not just a plot twist in romance novels. “I’m so embarrassed,” I whisper.
