ROLLED OVER, and his head throbbed in retaliation.
“I’m supposed to be dead,” he groaned.
His mouth felt as though somebody had filled it full of cotton. His body was stiff; his energy level was depleted by the rolling. And had he mentioned the head-throbbing?
Then he smelled her.
Calla. So full of hope and brightness.
Her warm vanilla scent surrounded him, comforting even though he didn’t deserve solace or sympathy. Maybe he had something to live for, after all.
Flashes of the night before, however, returned in a wave of panic and humiliation. Snippets of conversation about cake, three-ways and hits. Whether those were mob hits or his continual focus on the Yankees’ lousy batting average, he wasn’t sure. Him kissing her, shoving his hand beneath her skirt.
Please, oh, please, tell me I didn’t actually do that.
Course the Almighty wasn’t listening as a wave of nausea turned his stomach. Not that he deserved mercy regardless.
He chanced opening his eyes, surprised when no further pain assaulted him. The room was dark, with only a strip of light shining under the door and a star-shaped night-light plugged into the wall to his right.
Hold everything.
This wasn’t his apartment, and he certainly wasn’t in his bed. Squinting, he could make out the white-and-pink rose-laden comforter covering him. Beneath the sheet—also pink—he was naked.
Oh, man. Oh, no. Please. No.
Guilt shot through every cell in his body. Surely he hadn’t had sex with her. He wouldn’t have taken advantage of her that way. Not even he could have done that.
Fear drove him from the bed. Each movement caused his stomach to roll and his head to pound, but he gritted his teeth and kept going. He was in the midst of figuring out what he could wear when he saw his clothes neatly folded on the dresser.
He wasn’t sure what that level of care said, but knew he shouldn’t think about the implications too long.
And yet, the dread that he’d given into his baser needs with Calla when he’d promised himself not to go near her was nearly overwhelmed by the anxiety that she was, even now, planning their wedding. Both scenarios gave him the motivation to stumble into the bathroom, splash water on his face and hair, rinse with the mouthwash he found beneath the sink, get dressed then crack the bedroom door.
Immediately, he smelled bacon.
Surprisingly, his stomach whimpered with need. If he could get his hands on that bacon, a gallon of coffee and four or ten aspirin, he might make it through the day.
With a confidence he didn’t feel, he strode through the living room to the bar-high counter bordering the kitchen.
Wearing a robe the color of cotton candy, she stood in front of the stove. Her tanned and toned legs peaked from beneath the robe’s hem. Her long blond hair was piled on top of her head in a messy mass that turned him on in a big way.
But then wasn’t everything associated with her arousing?
“Bacon?” he managed to croak.
She smiled at him over her shoulder. “I thought I heard water running. Pretty fast shower.”
“I didn’t take a shower.”
The smile turned to a scowl. “Why not? I put out fresh soap and shampoo. Not my girly stuff, either.”
“I’m probably in your way.”
“You’re not. Don’t you want bacon?” When he nodded, she added, “Breakfast will take a few more minutes. Plenty of time for a shower.”
“Don’t you have work to do?”
“It’s Sunday. Wanna take a shower or tell me about last night?”
He headed back to the bedroom. In the shower, he acknowledged the hot, powerful spray from overhead cleared much of his confusion.
One, sex between him and Calla was still imaginary. A realization that was both good and bad.
Two, his head didn’t hurt just because he’d overindulged in whiskey. He’d been whacked on the back of the head. Reaching behind him, he found a bandage and smooth skin around the edges. Hell. Somebody’d shaved a section of his head. He wasn’t vain about stuff like that but still … a bald spot?
Not only did he not have game, his game was on strike.
For the shaving and bandage, he recalled a hospital nurse. For the assault he drew a blank.
He shook his head, which did nothing but increase the incessant pounding.
Bracing his forehead against the tiled shower stall, he fought to push through the clouds clogging his memory, but the deluge of water only made him wonder if he was supposed to get his bandage wet, and, if he did, would he die of an antibiotic-resistant bacterial infection or simply start leaking brain fluid that would swirl down the drain?
And, if so, would that please happen now?
Until one of those glorious moments occurred, he might as well make the woman who promised to feed him happy. He reached for the mini hotel shampoo she’d obviously set out for him, but was distracted by the large bottles belonging to her. Leaning close, he inhaled vanilla and sugar and his head immediately stopped pounding.
Contentment washed over him, even as hunger to be near her ran rampant. She’d tempted him for months, even though he knew they couldn’t be together. She was too bright and pure, and he wasn’t about to drag her into his crappy life and past.
He resisted the urge to cover himself in her scent and washed quickly with the hotel-size green tea products. Once he’d dressed and headed toward the kitchen a second time, he acknowleged she’d been right. The shower had steadied him.
Course a lot of his memory was muddled, and that was going to be a problem. From past experience, he knew she was relentless when she was after something. He sure didn’t think she’d let him get away with a free breakfast and hot shower.
As he walked from the bedroom toward the kitchen, she was dishing scrambled eggs onto a plate already groaning with bacon. His stomach grumbled in response.
“How do you take your coffee?” she asked in a cheerful, if low volume, voice.
His pounding head appreciated the care. Why was she so good to him when he didn’t deserve to be in the same room with her? “Black, thanks.”
He sat on one of the two stools pushed up against the bar bracketing the kitchen on two sides. She handed him a heavy-looking mug, though he imagined her cupboards were full of dainty teacups. A quick scan of the counter proved his guess—a cream scallop-edged cup with a bouquet of pink roses decorating the side sat beside the stove.
As he took the first sip of coffee, their gazes locked. Weak as he was, he quickly looked away. He didn’t need to complicate his already tangled life with his
