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Oh God, what were we doing?
Jude pulls a juicer out of a cupboard and plugs it in. “After being groped and given an ear-bashing about my apparent anger issues and life choices”—his head cocks accusingly—“I got you all in the car and was forced to call Charley’s husband to find out where they live because none of you could remember.”
“Oh.”
“He looked about as happy as I felt.” He starts feeding oranges into the juicer, his reproachful eyes on my wilting form. “He was even more thrilled when Abbie threw up all over the hallway and woke the baby up with her singing.”
“Oh dear.”
“And Charley fell up the stairs and woke the other one.”
“Sounds chaotic.”
Jude flicks the button for the juicer, and it roars to life. The sound is torture on my delicate being. And he knows it. I close my eyes and cover my ears, waiting for him to turn the damn thing off. “Abbie stayed at their place, and I brought you here. I didn’t want you choking on your own vomit or anything.” He pours some juice and slides it across to me. “You don’t deserve it.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, genuinely feeling it. It sounds like he had quite a night, and I’m certainly paying for it. “I don’t know what happened. Forgive me?”
“Maybe.” He leans on the counter. “How will you make it up to me?”
“However you want. Name it.” I drink some of the juice, purring my appreciation.
“You might regret that.” Pouring himself some, he downs it and swills the glass under the tap.
“I don’t regret anything.”
His small smile is knowing as he puts the glass in the dishwasher. “That’s reassuring. Get dressed. My biggest little brother’s turned up. I want you to meet him.”
I cough over my glass. Meet one of his brothers? “Jude, I’m nursing a pretty horrific hangover. I must look atrocious.” What will he think? And isn’t that in the realms ofveryserious? Is this very serious?Idiot.
“You look perfect.” He reaches for my hair and pushes it back over my shoulder. “But you smell gross.”
“Thanks.”
“Go get a shower. I’ll meet you in the Piano Bar. It’s on the right past reception.” He wanders off, raking a hand through his waves as he goes, making every muscle on his back undulate. Is he punishing me?
“No sex?” I call.
He looks over his shoulder. “Oh, baby, you’re getting it so hard later.”
“Don’t tease me.”
He shakes his head and disappears, and I grab my phone, calling Abbie. She doesn’t answer, so I try Charley. The call connects. But it isn’t Charley.
“Hi, Lloyd,” I chirp, folding over the counter, without the energy to hold myself upright.
He grunts, unhappy, and the next minute Charley’s on the line. “I need to remember that hangovers are no fun when you’ve got kids.”
“Are they ever fun?”
“When you can lie in bed feeling sorry for yourself all day, they’re way more fun than the hell I’m in now.”
“How’s Abbie?”
“Green.”
“And Lloyd?”
“Not talking to us. He just asked me why I’ve an appointment confirmation for a breast augmentation in our shared inbox.”