“Let me help you,” he says. “You’re not steady on your feet.”
“I’m fine, I’m—”
“Let me,” he says again, his voice smooth and hot, and I nod.
He wraps an arm around me and guides me to my bedroom. Walking by the armchair piled high with clothes, turning on the bedside lamp, he pushes me to sit on the mattress and kneels at my feet to take off my shoes.
I look down at his blue hair, at those wide shoulders stretching his jacket, and my heart trips. God. Cut against the golden light of my lamp, he’s so beautiful. I’m dying to thread my fingers through his hair, kiss his mouth. Watch lust haze his bright eyes, feel it against my body as he becomes aroused and hard.
But I can’t. Falling in his arms at the bar was one thing. Taking a good look at him from up close is another. He’s the perfect sunny boy of Damage Control, the heartthrob every girl wants. With that soft mouth, those cheekbones, that hard jaw dusted in light stubble, he’s way too gorgeous even for a joke and a laugh with me.
He’s not for you, Kay. You can’t have him. He’s got everything he needs already, while you’re still searching.
Dammit. Living in a drunken fantasy was so much better.
***
“I am so proud of you, Kayla-bug,” my mom says, my father beaming at me over her shoulder. “I can’t tell you how pleased and relieved we are that you have returned to your senses and came back to us. That you have followed your sister’s steps and found a good asshole to marry and have kids with, someone who will stomp all over you, cheat on you and make you cry day in and day out. I am sure you feel a weight lifted off your chest, too.”
Oh God, this isn’t real. This is a dream. A frigging nightmare.
And I promptly wake up, gasping.
At first, I’m not sure I have. My mind is still tangled up in threads of dream, and my mom’s voice is echoing in my ears.
So proud. So happy. So relieved.
Man, what a screwed-up dream. Note to self: do not mix Appletinis and beer again. Ever. My head is pounding, and I blink, trying to focus on what I’m seeing, trying to understand it.
It doesn’t look right. For many reasons.
One of them being the room seems to have tilted sideways.
That’s when I realize I’m lying on my bed, curled on my side, the covers pulled up to my chin. The bedside lamp is on, and faint dawn light is creeping through the slats of my window. My shoes are haphazardly thrown on the carpet, my earrings are lying in a heap on the bedside table…
And there’s a guy in the armchair, arms folded over a broad chest, head tilted forward. Asleep.
Lifting my head off my pillow in alarm, I open my mouth, then close it again as memory smacks me on the forehead.
Ocean. At the bar. In the car. Taking me home. Putting me in bed.
Propped on my elbow, caught in a spell, I watch him sleep on my armchair. His hair is falling in his eyes, his lips are parted, his chest rises and falls with deep, even breaths. He’s still dressed in his jacket and heavy-duty combat boots.
He’s so cute like this. Not grinning, or frowning, or making funny faces to get his friends to laugh—though a crease between his dark brows tells me he must be uncomfortable as hell. I bet he’ll have a crick in his neck like nobody’s business.
Or he’s having a bad dream, like I did. Yeah, bad dream, I think as he jerks and mutters something under his breath. Probably worse than mine. Mine was just weird.
His head falls back, and my gaze is caught by the expanse of his long, pale throat, the vulnerable angle of his face, which is now turned toward me, blue hair brushing his brow.
Another jolt goes through him, and he sits upright, hands flung in front of him, as if to stop something, or someone.
“Not true,” he says, his voice shockingly loud after the quiet. His breathing is coming in gasps. “She’s not dead.”
Then he bows his head and covers his face with his hands.
That breaks through my mini-trance. He’s breaking my heart like that. Never seen him so utterly shattered.
“Ocean?” I sit up, too, throwing my legs off the bed. “Hey. It was just a dream.”