made a vexed sound and rolled off the mattress, shading her eyes with one hand as she staggered across the rug to the window. She twisted the blinds closed and drew the layered muslin curtains, sighing with relief at the resulting darkness. A dull ache was beginning to form behind her temples, and all she wanted was to dissolve back into sleep. She turned and stumbled forward to collapse on her pillow, and froze.
Doyle’s sleeping form was partially tucked beneath the covers on the opposite side of her parents’ king-sized bed. The thick comforter was pushed down around his waist to reveal the tanned, muscular contours of his chest. One arm was thrown carelessly over his head and his lips were slightly parted to take in deep, even breaths. She stared at him as the night’s events came crashing back.
She was such an idiot. She’d been sucking down those mojitos like they were water. And she couldn’t remember a thing after her vague recollection of saying goodnight to Melody and Manny. She glanced down and her head started to pound in earnest. She wasn’t wearing anything except for her lacy white bra and panties.
She blinked at Doyle in trepidation, wondering what she would find if she pulled the covers just a little lower. She couldn’t have…he wouldn’t have…oh, crap. She needed an aspirin. She lurched toward the bathroom to pull on her robe, cinching the soft, over-washed fabric tightly around her waist. Then she dug some pills out of the medicine cabinet, and shuffled off to the kitchen for a glass of water.
She was sitting at the mosaic-tiled table in the nook by the west-facing box window, pressing a cool waterglass to her forehead and waiting for the painkillers to do their work, when Doyle wandered out of the bedroom. He stretched and yawned, his arms and bare chest shifting tantalizingly with the movement. A pair of plaid cotton boxers rode low on his trim hips.
He gave her a warm, slumberous smile. “Good morning, Sunshine. How are you feeling?” His voice held a sexy, sleep-roughened quality that sent a shiver across her nerve-endings.
“Okay,” she answered, more shrilly than she intended.
He frowned. “Are you sure? You look a bit peaky. Does your head hurt?” He started forward. “I know an amazing massage technique…” He faltered.
Her eyes had gone wide, almost panicked, at his approach.
“Violet?” he asked in concern.
“Uh huh,” she squeaked, her muscles tightening as if in preparation to flee.
“Have I done something to upset you?”
“I…” her hand trembled slightly as she lowered her waterglass to the table, her eyes following it down. “I can’t remember what happened last night,” she mumbled, refusing to look at him.
Doyle made a sound suspiciously akin to a laugh. He closed the distance between them, his bare feet slapping against the wood floor, and lowered himself onto the empty wrought iron chair next to Violet. His knee brushed hers where her robe had fallen open, and she squeezed her eyes shut in mortification. But she didn’t pull away; she didn’t want to. And that was part of the problem.
Doyle took one of her hands and gently lifted her chin with the fingers of his other hand. “Violet, look at me.”
He was right. She was acting like a child. She forced herself to face him, feeling embarrassingly unsophisticated.
“Nothing happened.” His sea-green eyes were solemn, but mirth sparkled within their depths.
She bit her lip. “But, the bed, and I was kind of undressed…”
“Sweetheart, we were caught in a downpour on the way home, and you insisted on dancing in the rain,” he told her with an amused snort. “You were soaked. It was all I could do to get the wet clothes off you before you passed out.”
She pulled back from him, a comical expression of horror flitting across her face. “You undressed me?”
“I couldn’t let you sleep in a puddle of water! And it’s not as if it’s anything I haven’t seen before,” he pointed out, exasperated.
Violet’s eyebrows drew together dangerously and he knew he’d said the wrong thing. “You’ve never seen me before.”
“Violet, come on. It’s just like seeing you in a bikini,” he implored in a cautious attempt to backtrack.
“You’ve never seen me in a bikini,” she said stubbornly. “And that still doesn’t explain why we were in bed together.”
Doyle gaped at the way she’d turned the tables on him so quickly. An uncomfortable lump of guilt formed in his chest, leaving him unable to come up with a clever explanation for why he’d spent the night with her. In the same bed.
“I’m going to take a shower.” Her tone was flat as she rose and went back to the bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind her.
Doyle groaned and dropped his head into his hands. He’d been the perfect gentleman. How had he ended up with her mad at him? Well, maybe he’d enjoyed undressing her a bit more than he should have. The thought of those lacy wisps of white surrounded by all that bare, creamy skin was enough to make his cock twitch even now. But he hadn’t touched her any more than necessary to get her out of her wet clothes and into bed.
And the fact that he’d crawled into bed with her…well, he hadn’t wanted to walk home in that storm. He’d thought about sleeping on the couch, but he didn’t know where the extra linens were kept. Okay, so the truth was that he’d wanted to be near Violet. But the bed was huge, and he’d kept to his side.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
Violet closed her eyes and leaned against the inside of her parents’ bedroom door. What was wrong with her? She’d gotten drunk and Doyle had taken care of her. And she had turned it around and picked a fight with him. She should be relieved that he cared enough to make sure she got home safe, and was enough of a gentleman not to take advantage of her impaired judgment.
But the truth was, she was sober now and her judgment was still impaired. She’d only met him yesterday, and a part of her knew that she probably would have slept with him last night if he’d asked, liquor or no.
She headed into the bathroom to find both their clothes still wet, but draped neatly over the racks in the bathtub. She transferred them to the sink with a sigh, feeling a guilty comfort in the fact that he couldn’t leave without her apology. Not unless he wanted to walk home half naked anyway.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
Doyle wondered what he should do. He didn’t want to leave, but he didn’t know if Violet wanted him to stay. Not to mention the fact that poor Bruno was probably crossing his hind legs by now. It was a beach community and no one would look at him twice for walking the streets in his boxers. And although he wasn’t supposed to, he could always use magic.
But he wanted to make things up with Violet. He stood and wandered listlessly over to the refrigerator. It was barren except for a couple of yogurt cups, an old jar of mustard, some bottled water, and a rather dodgy looking Tupperware container. The pantry was similarly vacant, revealing a patchwork of colorfully lined shelves. A coffee pot sat next to a toaster on the speckled corian countertop, but sadly, there were no beans to be found.
He headed past the bright, mismatched living room
