17
Dying.
She was dying.
This was the end. An end to a short life. Her head throbbed, her mouth was dry, and her stomach was rolling. Why did people drink? Really? How was this fun? This wasn’t fun. Sure, it had seemed like a good idea last night . . .
What exactly had happened last night? Had she been playing the drums at some stage? She remembered hitting something. And squeezing something firm and high.
Oh no. Had she squeezed someone’s ass? And why did she think she could fly? She couldn’t fly. That was ridiculous.
Please don’t tell me I tried to fly last night.
With a groan, she rolled her over and opened her eyes. She tensed.
Oh no.
No. No. No.
This couldn’t be happening. This was some sort of dream. Because there was no way that Brick Sampson was lying on a beanbag next to her bed, sleeping.
Because that would mean he was in her bedroom. And she was lying in her cot-bed. With her pacifier and blankie lying next to her. That he’d had to walk through her playroom to get into her bedroom.
And that definitely hadn’t happened. She’d remember if something like that happened.
So, this was all just a bad, bad dream.
Sitting up, her head throbbed and her stomach rolled.
Sick. She was going to be sick.
Juliet quickly scrambled for the opening of her bed and managed to get to her feet, stumbling into her attached bathroom to land heavily by the toilet. She heaved, her body shaking violently. She abhorred throwing up. She sobbed, tears clouding her vision as her stomach revolted.
A warm hand landed on her lower back, making her jump.
“Easy, Duchess.” His voice both warmed and horrified her. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her like this.
He’d seen her bedroom, her bed. Lord knows what she’d done while she was drunk. How irresponsible was it of her to drink? This was her punishment. Being violently ill in front of the sexiest man alive. Then having him turn away from her after discovering one of her biggest secrets.
“It’s all right. Let it all out. You’ll feel better afterward.” He had her hair pulled back from her face.
Gross. Gross.
When the heaves stopped, he eased her onto her bottom and leaned her against the wall. She curled up into herself as she heard the toilet flush.
“Let’s get you cleaned up. Look at me.”
No way. She had to smell like booze and puke. She disgusted herself. And she couldn’t bear to see that look on his face. He just needed to go.
“Duchess. Look at me,” he repeated firmly.
This time, she managed to ignore the order. A sigh escaped him. This was it. Now, he would leave. And she could crawl into her bed and die.
There was the sound of running water. What was he doing? Taking a bath?
“Right, Duchess, here’s the thing,” he said in a no-nonsense voice. “I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but I know you’re feeling miserable. Been there, done that more times than I care to admit.”
What? He’d humiliated himself in front of someone that he was attracted to?