forehead.
That was the only possible explanation
for all this banging and hammering.
I cracked open an eye, and rued the day
I was born.
Usually I was good about drinking
enough water to prevent hangovers, but after my fiasco last night,
I’d wanted to drop into unconsciousness as quickly as possible.
And oh, was I paying for it now.
The light from the window hit my one
open eye, and I groaned. And then I groaned again, because even the
sound of groaning hurt my head, and then basically I was trapped in a
vicious circle of hell.
And as a special bonus bit of torment,
I could kiss goodbye any chance of Hunter ever seeing me as a
professional. He was probably going to pack me off to Washington on
the first train or plane he could book me a ticket on. He was
probably going to distribute my photo to all his security people too,
to make sure I didn’t go all crazy stalker on him.
I made myself roll out of bed and crawl
to the dresser, where I pulled on the most uncomfortable,
unflattering outfit I could find. This was my penance. It wasn’t
enough.
But before I got fired, I needed to get
myself some goddamn coffee. And of course all the single-serving cups
that went in my suite’s coffeemaker were gone. It figured.
#
Somehow, I miraculously made my way to
the manor and into the kitchen without getting lost or dying from the
worst hangover ever known to man (or woman).
The smell of baking pastries only made
my stomach roil, and I filled up my coffee mug quickly, grabbing a
glass of orange juice as well. If I could just keep that down, my
electrolytes might be replenished by the time I was combing the want
ads for a new job back at home.
“How’s the head?”
I almost dropped my cups.
There was Hunter, looking good enough
to eat in a tight shirt and loose khakis. I blushed, thinking of how
I must look in a tattered bathrobe over my frumpy outfit. And after
the things I’d said last night—after the things I’d
done--
Hunter laughed sympathetically. “Not
great, I take it.” He grabbed an egg from the refrigerator and
cracked it into my orange juice. His hand wrapped around mine, nudged
me towards the fridge. “Just add some Worcestershire sauce to
that, and you’ve got a foolproof hangover cure.”
I eyed the cup, my brain torn between
confusion, lust, and suspicion. Was he actually feeling this casual?
He couldn’t be. I just wished I could think clearly, instead of
fighting through the headache and the insistent urge to check out his
abs.
“I think I’ll stick to
coffee,” I said, my face flushing. I could feel the heat
radiating off his body. Why did he always catch me at my worst?
“It’s your head,” he
said with a shrug. He leaned closer, his eyes dancing. “Seems
like your research methods have been a lot more fun for me than you,
on the whole.”
R-rated images danced a tango through
my head, and this time, it was my turn to make my excuses and flee.
#
Since I was, somehow, not fired, I took
refuge under a willow outside the library, where I could look over my
notes with no risk of the elements damaging the original texts safe
back inside. There, hidden beneath its copious leaves, I managed to
get some work done.
Until Hunter managed to track me down
three hours later, and I forgot everything except how yummy he looked
in a tight white t-shirt.
“I’ve got something to show
you,” he said.
And it probably wasn’t his abs. I
braced myself for the ‘it’s just not working out, I’m
going to get someone new from your company’ speech…
But he pulled out his cell phone
instead.
“You’re making a bad habit
of taking calls while talking to me,” I said. Maybe reminding
him of our night together wasn’t the smartest move, but what
the hell, how much more trouble could I get in?
His lips quirked for a second before he
passed me the phone. “I wanted to show you this.”
It was a text conversation from Chuck.
At first I didn’t get it—Chuck was just
That was the only possible explanation
for all this banging and hammering.
I cracked open an eye, and rued the day
I was born.
Usually I was good about drinking
enough water to prevent hangovers, but after my fiasco last night,
I’d wanted to drop into unconsciousness as quickly as possible.
And oh, was I paying for it now.
The light from the window hit my one
open eye, and I groaned. And then I groaned again, because even the
sound of groaning hurt my head, and then basically I was trapped in a
vicious circle of hell.
And as a special bonus bit of torment,
I could kiss goodbye any chance of Hunter ever seeing me as a
professional. He was probably going to pack me off to Washington on
the first train or plane he could book me a ticket on. He was
probably going to distribute my photo to all his security people too,
to make sure I didn’t go all crazy stalker on him.
I made myself roll out of bed and crawl
to the dresser, where I pulled on the most uncomfortable,
unflattering outfit I could find. This was my penance. It wasn’t
enough.
But before I got fired, I needed to get
myself some goddamn coffee. And of course all the single-serving cups
that went in my suite’s coffeemaker were gone. It figured.
#
Somehow, I miraculously made my way to
the manor and into the kitchen without getting lost or dying from the
worst hangover ever known to man (or woman).
The smell of baking pastries only made
my stomach roil, and I filled up my coffee mug quickly, grabbing a
glass of orange juice as well. If I could just keep that down, my
electrolytes might be replenished by the time I was combing the want
ads for a new job back at home.
“How’s the head?”
I almost dropped my cups.
There was Hunter, looking good enough
to eat in a tight shirt and loose khakis. I blushed, thinking of how
I must look in a tattered bathrobe over my frumpy outfit. And after
the things I’d said last night—after the things I’d
done--
Hunter laughed sympathetically. “Not
great, I take it.” He grabbed an egg from the refrigerator and
cracked it into my orange juice. His hand wrapped around mine, nudged
me towards the fridge. “Just add some Worcestershire sauce to
that, and you’ve got a foolproof hangover cure.”
I eyed the cup, my brain torn between
confusion, lust, and suspicion. Was he actually feeling this casual?
He couldn’t be. I just wished I could think clearly, instead of
fighting through the headache and the insistent urge to check out his
abs.
“I think I’ll stick to
coffee,” I said, my face flushing. I could feel the heat
radiating off his body. Why did he always catch me at my worst?
“It’s your head,” he
said with a shrug. He leaned closer, his eyes dancing. “Seems
like your research methods have been a lot more fun for me than you,
on the whole.”
R-rated images danced a tango through
my head, and this time, it was my turn to make my excuses and flee.
#
Since I was, somehow, not fired, I took
refuge under a willow outside the library, where I could look over my
notes with no risk of the elements damaging the original texts safe
back inside. There, hidden beneath its copious leaves, I managed to
get some work done.
Until Hunter managed to track me down
three hours later, and I forgot everything except how yummy he looked
in a tight white t-shirt.
“I’ve got something to show
you,” he said.
And it probably wasn’t his abs. I
braced myself for the ‘it’s just not working out, I’m
going to get someone new from your company’ speech…
But he pulled out his cell phone
instead.
“You’re making a bad habit
of taking calls while talking to me,” I said. Maybe reminding
him of our night together wasn’t the smartest move, but what
the hell, how much more trouble could I get in?
His lips quirked for a second before he
passed me the phone. “I wanted to show you this.”
It was a text conversation from Chuck.
At first I didn’t get it—Chuck was just
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