“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. As much as you had to drink, Jayne, I’m glad I was here to look after you. The thought of you going through that alone, or worse, passing out and never waking up again…it’s just not something I want to think about. I take it that’s never happened to you before. Getting sick after drinking?”
“Never.” And never again.
Seth helped her back to the bed and piled the pillows behind her so she was partially reclined and refilled the glass of water for her. He encouraged her to sip it slowly to replace the fluids she’d lost. When her stomach had settled sufficiently he coaxed her to take two ibuprofens and tucked her back into the bed. That must’ve been why he’d waited to give them to her.
Jayne felt as weak as a kitten, and when he climbed into the bed and pulled her to him so that she was snuggled back to his chest, she felt disgusted with herself.
“Seth?” Her voice sounded weak in her own ears.
“Yeah?”
“I’m dropping the subject completely. I know I could’ve found myself in dire straits tonight. I’m done chasing sex. I got impatient. Even if I didn’t want it right now, I’m so incapacitated you could do whatever you wanted to me and I couldn’t stop you.”
“And that’s kind of scary, isn’t it?” Jayne nodded and sighed when he squeezed her and planted a kiss on her shoulder. “When you collapsed on the dance floor it scared me. Not a good combination with being pissed off at seeing that cowboy’s hand on your ass.”
Jayne smiled at his possessive tone, vaguely remembering that she’d imagined that it had been Seth’s hand on her. “So, I’m yours, huh? I didn’t imagine that you said that?”
“Yes.” The single word was spoken without hesitation.
“Is that your way of asking if you can be my boyfriend?” What a lame word for such an intense, serious, quiet man.
“Yes, baby. Sleep.” His fingers gently sifting through her hair was the last thing she remembered.
Chapter Six
Jayne woke the next morning to the sound of a buzz saw screaming. She put her hands to her head to determine if it was still attached and covered her eyes. Shielding them from the glare piercing the mini-blinds, she blinked and groaned in pain as even that simple action made a jarring noise inside her head.
“I’m dying.”
Looking up, she determined that the buzz saw was actually her alarm going off. She hit the Off button and gazed up at the fan whirling above her bed. She closed her eyes against the mesmerizing whirl of the fan blades when nausea quivered in her stomach, which felt a little sore.
What happened again? Oh, that’s right. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila…floor. That Señor Patrón is a son of a bitch. I’m dying. Wait! Seth was here, and he—did I dream that?
The seductive memory surfaced of watching him stroke her pussy, in front of the mirror—oh, the things he’d done to make her body sing. The heat that built inside her once more was dampened by the memory of the previous evening’s gastronomic tsunami.
Recalling that she been snuggled up with Seth when she’d fallen asleep, she groped but found only the bare, cold sheets. A little part of her was disappointed but, still needing to determine how close she actually was to death’s door, she was mostly glad that she was alone.
Her pulse pounded inside her brain, and she breathed carefully until the tom-tom beat subsided to a tolerable level before she stood. Her hair hung in her eyes and her limbs quaked as she shuffled into the bathroom. I can’t believe I did this to myself.
She flipped the light on and just as quickly flipped it back off when she got a glimpse of herself under the lights.
“Oh, hell. It’s the zombie apocalypse. No wonder he’s not here.” She held her hands to the sides of her head.
Don’t talk so loud! I’m dying!
Squinting at herself in the mirror, Jayne groaned in horror. Dried drool crusted her cheek, and her tongue felt furry. She cringed as she used her hairbrush, every follicle throbbing in a symphony of pain. After she’d brushed her teeth, she felt moderately less zombie-ish.
Wondering what had become of Seth, and fearing that her early-morning grotesqueness had scared him off, she came to a standstill in the kitchen. Taped to the coffeepot was a note. Beside the coffeepot was a bottle of water, a coffee cup, spoon, and her bottle of ibuprofen. Positioned beside those items were three graceful origami swans. Two looked as though they were floating on a pond, their graceful necks extended. The third swan’s neck was bowed, with its beak touching the counter as though nibbling from the surface of the pond. She lifted one of the delicate paper creations into her palm and smiled.