“Mostly my mom’s,” I admit sadly.
I help her stand and then pull open a drawer where I keep spare, unopened toothbrushes. “Towels in the cabinet if you want to grab a shower. Or if you feel like falling into bed, that’s fine, too. I’ll get you settled. Just yell.”
She’s standing there in her cute shorts, her hair rumpled, lipstick gone, complexion a little green. All I can think about is how beautiful she is. Even now. Even in pieces.
“Thanks, Fox.”
“You’re welcome, Kitty Cat.” I pull the door to, but before I shut it, I warn her, “I’m going to check on you every five minutes to make sure you don’t pass out in here.”
“Believe it or not, I’m feeling much better.”
“I believe it. I’ve been Burke-bombed before.”
Catarina
Parts of last night come to me in strobe-light fashion. Some of it blessedly black. Like: How did I end up wearing Barrett’s T-shirt? Did I have help washing my hair? Other parts I remember way, way too vividly. Stacie and the porch swing. Shots. Puking while Barrett held my hair.
Groan.
Why do I have to remember that part?
I swallow the two Advil with a swig from the water bottle on Barrett’s nightstand. I do a double-take at the clock. Eight A.M.? I couldn’t even sleep in for a hangover? I accept my fate and climb out of bed. I dress in last night’s shorts and T-shirt, grateful that I didn’t puke on my clothes.
Shuffling from the bedroom to the living room, I spot Barrett in the kitchen. He’s leaning over his laptop, squinting, his lips moving as he reads the words. Wonder how long he’s been up? I take in the scene since he hasn’t noticed me yet. White countertop and cabinets, dark gray backsplash and stainless steel appliances—and him sitting in the center of that elegance, bare feet, cargo shorts, T-shirt.
He’s a sexy specimen, and despite everything we’ve done together I feel a wave of shame for him having to deal with me drunk.
“Tell me you’re not detailing last night in there,” I say, only half kidding. He turns, his eyes hazy like he was in deep concentration.
“Morning, Kitty Cat.” His lopsided smile causes my heart to flutter.
“I’m going to slip into the restroom. Brush my teeth one more time.” I point at the adjacent doorway. “Then I’ll be back for coffee if you’ve got it?”
“I’ve got it,” he says.
I make quick work of my morning routine and then return to the kitchen to find Barrett pulling a full mug of coffee from beneath a one-cup coffee maker. He hands it over as I sit on a high-top stool. His laptop is open, a Word doc cued up. Before I can start reading, the lid snaps shut.
“Cream.” He sets the half-and-half container next to my mug.
“You still won’t let me read it?”
“Nope.” He hands me a spoon. “Breakfast? I make a mean omelet.”
At the mention of eggs, my stomach does a somersault. I rest my forehead on my hand and blow out a tortured breath. He rubs circles on my back, reminding me of my clinging to the toilet like a barnacle.
“I’m so sorry about last night,” I say as he takes the stool next to mine.
“Me, too. Missed the chance to get laid.”
“Don’t joke.”
“Don’t be sorry.” He reaches for the seat of my stool and pulls me forward until our knees touch. “You forgot to kiss me good morning.”
He doesn’t give me time to argue—not that I would have—and lights me up with a slow kiss.
“Mmm,” he hums. “You taste good. Now I want coffee.” He takes a drink from my mug. “Ick. Tastes girly.”
“Why do you have half-and-half if you drink black coffee?”
“To make the omelet I told you about.”
“Maybe I’ll eat tomorrow morning.”
He chuckles at my plight. “You’ll be okay. Just a touch of cocktail flu.”
“Well, I have to attend a cocktail party for the Dispatch tonight, so my ‘flu’ had better not last past the afternoon.”
“We,” he corrects.
“Right. We. Wear a tux if ya got one.”
“I got one.” He winks, purposely teasing me about my bad grammar. My gaze lingers on the contoured shape of his lips, but I sip my coffee instead of leaning in to taste his mouth again.
“Did you... Where did you sleep?”
“Next to you.” He shrugs. “You asked me to.”
Oh, right. That I do remember, though it took him mentioning it to call it up. I take another sip of coffee. “I should go. I have a lot to do today.”
“Nope.”
“Um. Yes. I do.” I rub my forehead and try to remember what’s on my list of to-dos, but my brain feels like a smashed watermelon. “I think.”
“You’re going to spend the day with me, and then I’ll bring my stuff to your place, and we’ll change for the party. Eventually I’ll get some food into you, even if it’s dry toast.”
“I can’t spend the day here.”
“Why not?”
“I’m in yesterday’s clothes.”
“That is a problem. I prefer you in no clothes.”
“Ha-ha.”
“Stop worrying, Catarina.” Whenever he uses my actual name, I soften. I’m not sure why. Everyone calls me Catarina, yet when I hear my name in Fox’s rough, gruff tone, I absolutely melt. “I’ll be in charge of taking care of you for the next twenty-four hours.”
“Twenty-four hours!”
“You said I could make you breakfast tomorrow morning. I’m holding you to it.”
Chapter 24
Catarina
Two cups of coffee and a slice of toast with raspberry jam has me feeling more human than when I first awoke in Barrett’s bed. More memories from last night surface throughout the day.
Me rolling over and colliding with a firm leg. Rough fingertips gliding down my arm. The soft reassurance of, “You’re okay, Kitty Cat.”
I’m coming to the bizarre conclusion that Barrett Fox is a lot better boyfriend material than North. I can tell you this: North never would’ve carried me into his apartment and held my hair while I retched.
I’m not a big drinker, but once North and I attended a fundraiser where I drank too much champagne. On the drive home, he sternly reminded me that I wasn’t a teenager and that I was a lady and that if I had to throw up, he’d pull over so I could puke on the road rather than ruin the interior of his new car.
Gosh. I’d forgotten about that.
“Why the face?” Barrett asks. He’s on the sofa next to me, elbows on his knees, eyes on mine instead of his computer screen. I’ve been flipping idly through my phone. Okay, not idly. I was reading comments on our article from last weekend.
Rather than share my conclusion about Northrop (what could Barrett tell me that I didn’t already know?), I scroll through the comments and start reading out loud. After I read five of them, I notice Barrett is making the same sour face I was earlier.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “You don’t find several comments from women saying they’d like to do...well, lots of interesting things to you...flattering?”