Page 19

But maybe I told him everything: the rich kids, the pressure, the homesickness. Maybe it was all too much. Evan’s not good under pressure. He breaks or lashes out. It wouldn’t surprise me if he just left. He’d probably imagined a weekend of sex and fun, and all he got was a drunk sad girl whining about her life instead.

A soft click startles me out of my thoughts: the sound of the door opening, then closing again. Shame immediately replaces sadness.

Why does my mind always go there first—that he left? That I’m too sad, too poor, too much for him? I try to tell myself it’s just the hangover, but deep down, I know it’s fear. A fear planted like a dagger into my chest, hilt-deep. A fear Evan put there, and which I can’t seem to allow him to remove, no matter how much he tries.

I stay still as I listen to him move about the room. Quiet footsteps, the smell of coffee and warm pastry. The rustle of things being placed down, more footsteps. And then fingers brushing the hair from my temples, blissfully cold against my oversensitive skin.

I groan into the pillow, turn around, and take Evan’s hand, pressing it flat on my aching forehead.

“So good,” I mumble through what feels like a mouthful of stale bubblegum.

“Yeah?” His voice is soft. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been run over by a truck.” I squeeze my eyes closed and wince. “And like I smell like a brewery.”

“You smell gorgeous.”

I crack an eye open. “Really?”

He shakes his head. “You smell like you’ve crawled out of a vat of liquor.”

“Oh no.” I roll away from him, shame trickling in, but he pulls me back by my shoulder, tucks my hair behind my ears.

“How about I run you a bath?”

There’s a strange expression in his blue eyes, affection tinged with sadness. It makes my heart clench. I nod. “It’s okay, it’s a lot of trouble.”

“Nah, it’s not. Here, sit up.” He helps me up, propping me against piled pillows, and fetches me a glass of water. “Drink this. I’ll be right back.”

When he finishes runningme a bath, he comes back to the bedroom, draws aside the blanket, and scoops me up into his arms. I curl my arms around his neck instinctively. I’m naked—I don’t even remember taking off my clothes. They lie at the bottom of the bed, on the broad ottoman, my boots next to it.

The free-standing bathtub is enormous, the water warm and fragrant when Evan lowers me into it. I wince, feeling soreness between my legs when the water submerges me and then with a sigh, I let my head fall back against the towel folded on the rim.

When I startfeeling more alive, Evan goes to get me the coffee and croissant he brought back. I eat with my arms hanging over the rim, while Evan washes my hair. His fingers massage my scalp, and it feels so good I could just dissolve into the water, into him, like a spoonful of sugar in a cup of tea.

And then I see his reflection. His eyes are clouded, gaze faraway, the corners of his mouth ever so slightly downturned. Something’s wrong, and I don’t even know how to find out what.

I focus on gathering the courage to speak to him.

“How much did I embarrass myself last night?”

His fingers go still in my hair; he’s silent for a long moment.

“How much do you remember?” he asks finally.

“Dinner. Dancing. Drinking.” I groan. “Waytoo much drinking.”

“Only a Brit could drink like that and survive,” he says lightly. And then, after a pause, “Kinda wish we’d not had sex if you can’t even remember it.”

That explains the aching between my legs and the fact I fell asleep naked. I pinch my lips together and then say, “I remember it.”

He tilts my head back gently in his hands, narrowing his eyes at me. “You do?”

I hesitate and then admit, “No. I’m sorry. But it’s my fault, I was really drunk, I probably even initiated.”

“Oh no,” he says, turning my head away once more. “Youdefinitelyinitiated.”

I squeeze my eyes shut in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. Were you drunk too?”