The Truth

A few minutes later, right as I begin to think she’s settled for the night, she sits bolt upright. Immediately, I worry she’s going to be sick again, but she just looks around and then smiles when she sees me. “Daniel.”

“Tiffany.”

She moves, turning around to lie down my way. Reflexively, I lift my arms up, not sure how to react and not wanting to touch her, but unfettered, she lays her head in my lap. She snuggles in, pulling the blanket up to her chin but then popping one foot out. For some reason, I get the feeling that’s how she always sleeps.

“Better?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

I stay frozen as she fidgets and tries to get comfortable. Instincts kick in, and I smooth the hair from her face, shushing her, and finally, she sleeps again. I don’t know how long I sit here, just watching her, before my own eyes grow heavy and I lay my head back, if only for a few minutes.

I wake up to sunlight streaming into my living room. Tiffany is still asleep in my lap, her face dangerously close to my crotch. Even worse, I seem to be sporting a bit of morning wood.

I shift carefully, not going fast since my right hand is tangled in her hair and my left arm is stretched across the back of the couch. Actually, my left shoulder hurts and is tingly with numbness because it’s not meant to stay in a stretched out position this long. Which means my swollen crotch is even harder to get out of the way when I’m effectively down both hands.

Gently as I can, I try to move to a less compromising position as I watch her for any sign of wakefulness. I’m about three-quarters of the way extracted when Tiffany stirs, her eyes going wide in confusion, and then she realizes where she is . . . or rather, who she’s with.

“Daniel?” Her eyes fall down to my cock, which jumps, not with delight at the attention but with my need to pee. Morning wood and the need to piss are not mutually exclusive. She blushes but says, “You’re hard.”

“Uh, yeah, just a normal morning thing,” I try to explain, but I swear she’s looking at my dick again. I shift, trying to get up, but I’m still pinned beneath her head. “Do you remember calling me last night? You were drunk and not feeling well? I took care of you, got you cleaned up, and made sure you didn’t choke in your sleep.”

Shit, that sounds bad and isn’t the conversational jump I’d been trying to make.

She chokes—on a laugh, fortunately. But almost immediately, that’s followed by a painful wince as Tiffany grabs her temple and hisses like an angry cat. She rolls to her back, her head still dangerously in my lap. “How much did I drink?”

“I’m not sure.”

She quiets for a moment, searching her memory, and then frowns. “I had a frozen pink donut. Or something like that?”

“I guess that explains the sugary smell in my car.”

Tiffany pales as my words sink in. “I threw up in your car?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I assure her, unconsciously running my hand over her hair. “What else do you remember?”

Her brow furrows. “I went to pay at the bar after making sure everyone left safely. I got a water. There was a guy talking to me . . .”

My gut clenches, remembering the guy sweeping her hair back, and if I could time travel back, I’d reconsider punching him. Maybe Elle has a point about my being overbearing versus overprotective. It’s also a reminder that I’m stupidly doing the same thing, and I stop my hand’s repetitive movement over her hair, laying both arms along the back of the couch so I don’t touch her.

“And then you saved me.”

I want to explore that, but there’s a loud knock at the door that makes us both jump.

Tiffany sits up, looking guilty and a little queasy at the sudden movement.

I feel like something shattered between us, which makes no sense because there is nothing between us.

I open the door to see Ricky jogging in place. He’s my nephew, and as security at Fox Industries, he’s assigned to be my shadow.

But privately, he’s one of my best friends. I feel like I’ve mentored him, watching him grow from a hot-headed teen to a thoughtful man. He’s a good guy.

“Ready for our run?” His voice trails off as he looks past me to see Tiffany. “Oh, sorry. Thought we had a ten o’clock appointment.”

Tiffany screeches. “Ten! It’s ten? Shit.”

She winces as she presses her hand to her head and squeezes her eyes shut. But with one steadying breath, she turns into a tornado of action, even though she looks a little green around the edges.

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to go. I’m supposed to open at ten,” she says by way of explanation. But it doesn’t explain a thing.