The Importance of Being Alice by Katie MacAlister Page B

second that ‘flrng,’ and raise you a ‘What the hell was I doing last night?’ Which prompts me to ask: What the hell
was
I doing last night?”
    One eyelid peeled back with an almost audible fwapping sound, kind of like a wet blind being pulled up. I rolled my eyeball over to see what was wrong with Elliott, but his bed was empty. Had I lost my mind? Were his spy ninja–like skills so great that he could speak to me without being in the room? Was he talking to me via a hidden intercom?
    A slight movement caught my peripheral vision. I leaned down over the edge of my bed and considered the man lying on the floor on his back, fully clothed, hair adorably tousled, and eyes scrunched closed.
    â€œHello, Elliott. I’d ask if you were checking under the beds for assassins, but since there’s drawers under the bed, and no space for a person, that can’t be.”
    His eyes opened. I winced when I saw just how bloodshot they were. “Assassins?”
    â€œYeah.” I thought for a minute. My brain seemed to be working very slowly this morning, kind of like a fog bank had rolled into my head and was smothering all those hardworking synapses. “You know, like double agents and their ilk. People sent to kill you in order to keep you from talking about what you know.”
    â€œThat’s a strangely specific thing to believe might be under your bed.”
    I remembered at that moment that I was supposed to be covertly digging into his past, and that mentioning the assassins and double agents that no doubt were once part of his daily life didn’t quite qualify as covert. “Um. Yeah. Ha ha. Just a joke.”
    â€œHow you can make a joke at a time like this is beyond me.”
    â€œA time like what?” I squinted at the small clock on the dresser. “Seven after eight? Are you not a morning person?”
    â€œNot at a time when my head feels like it’s full of cotton. Usually, I
am
a morning person. At least, I am when I don’t feel as if my entire body has been run through one of those damned historic windmills. What did I do last night?”
    â€œWe went to a coffeehouse. I guess that secondhandsmoke was more potent than Patrick let on. I’ve definitely got a drug hangover thing going on, and since you said you get the same way, I assume that’s why your head is full of cotton.” I touched my forehead. “Mine feels more like my brains have turned to molasses.”
    â€œCoffeehouse. That’s right. You dragged me to a coffeehouse and insisted I kiss you.”
    â€œI did no such thing. That was a pity kiss, and it was bestowed upon me of your own volition, not that I didn’t appreciate it at the time. I’m a little less happy with it now, although I seem to recall kissing you later on, too.” I rubbed my temples. “I’m having a hard time braining, to be honest.”
    â€œI empathize completely.” He sat up, moaned a little, and, with an unseemly grunt that I thought it best not to point out, got to his feet. “My mouth tastes like the inside of a tart’s piano. Do you have immediate need of the facilities, or may I use them?”
    â€œKnock yourself out. I took a shower in the middle of the night. Don’t you remember?”
    â€œAt this point in time, I remember nothing other than there is a reason I dislike this country.” With great dignity, he staggered into the bathroom and closed the door.
    By the time he emerged, I was dressed, had collected my gear for the day, and was flipping through a guidebook to review what sites were to be visited. “Evidently, we’re in Cologne, Germany, already. Cool. And we’re going to see the cathedral this morning. It sounds really interesting.” I looked up, making a sympathetic face when Elliott walked stiffly by me. “You really look like you’ve been through a war or two. You going to be OK?”
    â€œPossibly.”