The way his eyes heat up and he gives me that crooked smile, like I amuse him and maybe he even thinks I’m cute? Must’ve been my imagination.
Though he did threaten to get kinky with me. That’s promising, isn’t it?
I shake my head and punch the pillow to fluff it up, though I probably put more force into it than necessary. It’s probably a very high-end luxury pillow or something and did nothing to earn my sexually frustrated tension.
Le sigh.
“You’re too good-looking for your own good, Miguel,” I whisper, as I imagine him stripping down to his boxers or something, and does he like the way the sheets glide against his manly legs? I can tell he’s all defined muscles and strength. And man does he ever smell good, like those little masculine cologne paper inserts in the magazines they leave around the vet’s office.
Le double sigh.
I hope Prince is okay. I hope Toni is, too.
And for some reason, I sort of relax in the knowledge that I’m not the only one taking care of everything for once. Miguel’s here, too, and even though I hardly know the guy, I can tell he’s the type that would make sure things were taken care of. He brought us here, cooked dinner, got Toni situated. I mean, in most cases, people choose the kids they have. He didn’t. That accounts for some of his grumpiness, I guess.
I’m so damn tired, and the amaretto’s made me woozy. At least I’m not hungry. I like a guy that can cook, it’s a nice life skill, I think to myself as I close my eyes and drift off to sleep. I dream of pizza.
I wake, just as I’m about to bite into a pepperoni-laden slice, and my reality is a lot less pleasant than the dream. My head throbs, and my mouth feels strangely dry.
Oh, God. Oh no. I didn’t.
I so did.
I drank myself into a hangover. I haven’t done such a stupid thing in years.
I groan as I sit up in bed and hold my head with both of my hands, just to make sure it stays in place. I hear heavy footsteps outside my door, too heavy to be anyone’s but Miguel’s, then I glance at the time on my phone. 5:55 a.m.
God, he is out of his mind.
It’s too early for movement at this time of day. It’s too early for anything except maybe planting crops or something.
I groan again.
I sit up and feel a little better now that I’m sitting up. Maybe I imagined the hangover thing.
I will not let Miguel Santiago best me. If he can get up and go bench press or whatever the fuck at the ass crack of dawn, two can play at this game.
I stand up and decide a few squats never hurt anyone. I hold what I think is a good squat pose, then lower myself onto my haunches. Wow, nice. I feel a burn, and I think I’m supposed to feel that burn. I stand, then fall into squat position again, but my balance is off, and my head is killing me. So, although I try to squat, the world spins instead and I crash to my knees, my hands planting straight in front of me. I brace myself on the floor as the room spins.
Ow.
Ow!
I note my position—on my knees, hands flat on the ground in front of me, ass perched high— and I can’t help but wonder, what would Miguel do if he found me in this position? A quick slideshow whips through my mind, and a shiver runs through me.
Then I realize I’m hungover, alone, and kneeling on bruised knees on the floor wearing nothing but my free panties.
I stumble back into the clothes I’d tossed on a little chair by the bed. I’d give anything for a good change of clothes and my own toiletries, but I’ll get by. Toni needs me right now, and today’s a big day.
I walk to the bathroom and tug my fingers through my mass of frizz—er, curls—then splash water on my face and quickly brush my teeth. This takes like ten minutes because there’s lots of pausing and holding my head so it doesn’t explode.
I slide my shoes back on and head for the door. Prince didn’t do his bedtime duty, so he may be up soon anyway.
I note the door to Toni’s room is ajar as I walk toward the stairs, and there are voices in the kitchen. I peek into the room. Prince is gone, too.
I hold onto the railing for support as I walk downstairs.
Coffee.
Ibuprofen.
Water.
In that order.
But at the bottom of the stairs, I pause. The voices sound… happy. Content. I close my eyes against the rush of heat that comes to my cheeks when I hear Miguel’s manly laugh. If he’s laughing, he’s either genuinely happy, or on the cusp of insanity. I’m not sure which one would surprise me more.