Chapter 68 Taking Care
Eula paused, the driver wasn't there, and that left her to take him.
But her car was still at the hospital, not at home.
Eula glanced nervously at the clock. If she hurried, she could still snag a ride.
Just as her finger hovered over the rideshare app, Mary nudged her with a seasoned huff. "Eula, our guest has had a little too much of the good stuff. Why don't you make sure Mr. Nash doesn't end up with a bigger headache tomorrow?"
The man lounging on the sofa couldn't help but let a sly smile play on his lips when he overheard Mary. This nanny had impressed him. He'd have to remember to tip her generously come morning.
Eula, often too timid to assert herself, couldn't deny the logic. Considering the guest's prominent status, a faux pas was the last thing they needed. The thought of something going wrong filled her with dread. He was alone in Starry Villa—what if he simply fell into a deep drunken slumber, unnoticed?
Even if the help stumbled upon him the next day, it might be too late. And if her son played any role in this mess, she knew the blame would fall squarely on her shoulders.
"Mary, help me get him to my room. I'll take care of him tonight."
Together they hoisted the surprisingly hefty man up the stairs and into the bed, where they finally exhaled a collective sigh of relief.
Judson seemed lean, yet supporting him proved to be an arduous task. It felt like her body was about to fall apart.
Gasping for herself, Mary panted, "Eula, I'll check on the three little ones now, make sure they're tucked in. You've done a lot tonight."
Casting her gaze to the man sprawled on the bed, Eula suddenly realized she was out of her depth with intoxicated gentlemen. She reached for Mary's arm in a moment of panic. "What should I do?"
"Strip him down, wipe him with a warm towel. If he throws up, catch it. If he doesn't and just sleeps, make sure to check his breathing from time to time," advised Mary, the voice of experience in matters of drunken care.
Eula nodded with determination. "Got it, thanks."
As long as he was breathing, he'd be fine. Eula closed the door behind her and finished moving Judson onto the bed. Off came his shoes, then she worked on his clothing. As she fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, Eula almost swooned.
The man's chiseled physique was utterly distracting. She chastised herself under her breath, "Eula, focus. He's drunk, no ogling allowed."
Judson, although tipsy, was conscious enough to hear her little pep talk. A wry smile crept onto his lips. He then gave a tenuous tug at his trousers. "Uncomfortable in pants," he mumbled, half to himself.
Eula spared a glance at his pants; sleeping in them—especially those snug-fitting slacks—had to be uncomfortable. With a bitten lip and a stealthy look at his face, so unfairly perfect, she thought, "What a specimen. The gold standard for plastic surgery."
The moment hung in the air, a fragile blend of duty and a struggle against the pull of attraction.
Struggling mightily, Eula finally managed to peel the shirt off him, exposing a marvel of a torso, all chiseled chest and defined abs. It was frankly breathtaking.
Eula averted her gaze, resting his head back on the pillow.
Her hand hesitantly inched towards his waistband; a blush sped across her cheeks as a wave of shyness hit her. With her eyes shut tight, she reached down and brushed against his abs, her fingertips trailing the sensation, but as they met the leather of his belt, a firm hand suddenly clasped hers.
