With everything dry, I grabbed my blanket and stared at the empty tub. Was this what it had come to? Would I spend the rest of my life hiding in a damn tub so I didn’t wake up in a panic, feeling like my heart was trying to hammer its way through my sternum?
Sabrina most likely hated me, and I couldn’t even blame her. I’d rather she hate me than pity me. Tonight was the last night I’d sleep in here. I needed to shake this off, whatever it was.
After lying in the tub for a half hour, unable to stop the flashes of how I’d taken her with water sluicing off our bodies and wanted to do even more, I went back into my bedroom and grabbed the book off my table.
Nothing like a little childhood nostalgia to kill the nonstop thoughts of how she’d tasted, smelled, and felt that refused to subside. I’d get some sleep, and tomorrow I’d sleep in my bed and white-knuckle my grip on my insomnia and nightmares and maybe find a way to get back into Sabrina’s good graces.
Maybe.
21
Sabrina
I closed my computer and banged my head against my desk.
What had I been saying about wanting to keep my hands off Hunter? About how terrible an idea it would be to get involved with him? How he was probably a womanizing asshole?
Turned out, my instincts weren’t shot to shit and I’d been absolutely right.
Now I was in the unfortunate situation I’d been trying to avoid in the first place. Living with a guy I had the hots for and also hated, without anywhere else to go.
There was the option of going home to Arizona and sleeping on the futon in my mom’s sewing room. But the Apparel & Textile Expo was so close, if I could just get an invite. My design skills were good. I could create and print up a fake pass and wander in like I belonged and carpet bomb the place in my samples before security threw me out.
How long until Hunter decided the living situation was a bit too awkward and Barbara called me up and said it would be best if I moved out? I should soak all his underwear in bleach.
These were all mature ideas to help with my current life status.
A trip to the gym was what I needed. It wasn’t like I could feel any worse about myself.
Forty-two seconds into my one hour—who was I kidding? Twenty-minute workout—my name was said, so close to my ear that I lost my footing. My feet flew out from under me. One second I was glaring at the red blinking treadmill display, and the next I was staring up at the ceiling of the apartment building’s state-of-the-art gym.
“Sabrina?” There it was again.
No. No. No. I’d obviously died and this was my oxygen-deprived brain playing one last joke on me.
Hunter hovered over me. His bright blue eyes brimmed with concern.
“I’m okay.” I closed my eyes, trying to keep my face from bursting into flames. This was exactly what I got for attempting to work out. Message received, universe. I wouldn’t make this mistake again.
Strong hands gripped my shoulders.
My eyes popped open.
Hunter crouched beside me and stared intently. His worry sent a shot of anger flooding my veins. Where did he get off looking at me like that? Like he cared. Like he hadn’t unceremoniously shoved me out his bedroom door minutes after the best sex of my life. Like he wasn’t the world’s biggest dickhead and I didn’t want to punch him in the balls.
I shook his hands off. “I said I’m fine.” At least there was no one else in the gym. My humiliation had been restricted to a man I’d already humiliated myself in front of. Thank God for small favors.
I pushed myself off the floor.
Hunter’s hand pressed against my back.
“I don’t—” I whipped around. That was a mistake. Dots swam in front of my eyes, and I swayed, grabbing the handrail of the treadmill.
“Sabrina, sit down.” He held onto my hand with his other arm wrapped around my back and walked me to the polished wooden bench beside the water cooler with lemon slices floating inside.
“Seems I can’t help but get banged up whenever you’re around.” I shrugged my shoulders to dislodge his arms from me, careful not to shake my head. My words came out sharper than I’d intended, and I’d only just caught myself from saying hurt. Being the wounded castoff wasn’t how I wanted to live out the next two months in the apartment.
His gaze dropped, but he didn’t back off.
Instead of leaving me to wallow in my embarrassment solo, he grabbed ice from the container on the other side of the cooler and wrapped it in a towel.
“Seriously, Hunter—”
He held the makeshift ice pack to my head, focusing on the towel like one shift of an ice cube might cause my brain to start leaking out my ears.
I swatted his hands away and kept the ice in place. “You can start your workout. I’ll be fine. I just need a few minutes.”
“That was a hard hit.” He loosened his hold, but the arm he kept braced on the seat of the bench brushed against my back.
My stomach was overrun by an invasive butterfly species that needed to be wiped out ASAP. The bump to the head hadn’t knocked any sense into me.
“Thanks for the play-by-play. Go ahead with your workout.”
“Let’s get you up to the apartment.”
“Why won’t you just leave me alone like you asked to be left alone that night? Can’t I get the same damn courtesy?” I shot up and immediately regretted it. Everything around me got woozy.
Hunter lunged forward and grabbed me, steadying me and stopping me from getting another hit to the head.
No face-saving for me. Nope, that would be way too much to ask. “Fine, let’s go.”
Begrudgingly, I walked back to the apartment with him hovering the whole way.
Once back in the apartment, Hunter typed furiously on his phone while I lay down on the couch. There was no nausea or any other concussion indicators I’d found through my rapid-fire Googling, although now I was pretty sure I had amoebic dysentery and possibly leprosy.
He left the room, and I stared at the ceiling. The crown molding was gorgeous. I closed my eyes and sketched out the patterns in my head and tried to think of ways to incorporate them into my newest design.
What was the point? I wasn’t getting into the expo. No one wanted my designs. I’d never get even a baby toe in the door. And Harper Linens hadn’t gotten back to me. My options were dwindling by the second, and so was the money in my bank account.
From the back of the apartment, Hunter’s voice heightened in intensity. I guess he’d switched from texting to an actual call. There was a lot of bass and clipped, sharp responses.
“Do you want to get changed or go like you are?”
My eyes popped open. “Go where?”
“To see a doctor.” He leaned over the back of the couch.
I swung my feet off the couch and sat up, waiting for any dizziness or weirdness, and there was nothing. That meant no concussion, right? The jury was still out on leprosy, but it meant I didn’t have to spend any more money on a doctor. “I don’t need to see a doctor.” And I certainly didn’t need the bill. At this point I’d camp out in DC outside the Apparel & Textile Expo and try to slip my samples into the conference goers’ bags if that’s what it took, so every penny counted.