27
The sun piercing tiny slices through the drapes is worse than having salt poured into my eyes. Nausea hits as I try to sit up, and my mouth waters crazily. My cell is by
the bed, and I realize it’s been switched off. I never switch it off! I don’t even know what time it is; I could have missed a multitude of calls.
I swallow down the bile and reach for the glass beside my bed; lukewarm water will have to do. I know I should remember last night, but I don’t remember much after my third drink. I don’t do hard liquor, so it’s no surprise.
I’m a total lightweight.
I know at one point Jake came back. I think.
Maybe.
I have strange images of him leaning over me with his tie hanging free; I’m not sure if it was a dream or a memory.
I shower fast to combat the dizziness, then walk into the living room to ram toast and Tylenol down my throat in a bid to recover quickly. The place is silent, and I guess that Jake is still in bed. I remember that Felicity was here; I’d forgotten about her. I always try and ignore his female guests. At least I slept through her screaming for once, which is the only upside to my hangover.
My head winces every time I move, and I have to sip water to keep the gag reflex at bay. I regret drinking brandy immensely.
What the hell was I thinking? Why did I let it get to me that much? Why did I let that idiot get under my skin?
I usually have more resolve than that, but I think it was the shock. It’s been twelve years since his last contact, and although I knew he would resurface one day, I hadn’t expected it yesterday.
I’m wearing workout clothes as I intend to hit the gym when nausea subsides to sweat this out of my system. I’m glad we don’t have any meetings today. Nothing planned until this evening with a late client dinner. I might be able to get through it if we’re working from here.
It’s 9.00 a.m., and I wonder why Jake’s not up. Even on weekends, he never sleeps past six, even with a hangover, which isn’t like him.
I don’t have to ponder it for long as he walks in the door wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt soaked in sweat. He’s already been down at the gym and draped a towel around his neck. As usual, he is bright and cheery; he’s a morning person, something I’m not and never have been. I smile with effort as he walks in, then grimace as I feel awful.
“Morning, shorty,” he smiles back.
“Morning,” I mumble.
“How’s the head?”
“Sore,” I sigh and almost wince in reply.
“There are painkillers in the bathroom.” He flashes me a happy smile as he walks past the couch.
“I got some already.” I shake a packet in the air as proof.
“Have you eaten?” He walks toward the kitchenette, always intent on whatever he is doing, always at home in our suites.
“Yup.”
“Good. The quickest way to recover from a hangover. Can you order me some breakfast? I’m going for a shower.”
He’s at the fridge drinking a bottle of water, then throws me his special ‘I’ll floor you with my sexy smile’ smile and raises his eyebrow in the way of thanks as he stalks off to his room.
I wonder where Miss Crane is as I watch his rather too-pert ass sauntering away and guess she’s still asleep. Jake must have exhausted her last night, and it instantly pisses me off, killing any good mood I may have thought of having today.
Ughhh!
***
He eats breakfast in the living room while reading through papers in his trademark jeans and T-shirt; he’s barefoot, and his hair is still ruffled and damp from his shower. He looks nothing like the CEO of the company I first met and every bit a random guy on the weekend. It somehow feels a bit too domestic.
Felicity is sound asleep in his room, giving us much-needed peace before her screeching voice grates on my nerves again. I am glad of her absence; for some reason, her presence today annoys me way more than usual.
He doesn’t seem interested in any work yet, and I’m glad. I’m trying to stay as still as possible, lying in my space on the couch beside him. It’s the only way my nausea and sore head are bearable as I try to concentrate on the laptop on my thighs. The screen won’t stay in focus, and I’m finding it hellish. I sigh, sliding it onto the table and lying down properly, resting my head on the cushioned arm. He gives me a knowing smirk, and I glare at him in response. I’m not in the mood for him to tease me right now.
Yes, I’m hungover, Jake. So, what!
I should maybe remind him of how many times I’ve seen him legless and stumbling into hotel rooms at stupid o’clock. I’ve seen sunglasses-wearing, grouchy, next-day Jake many times over the past few months.
He finally puts down his mug of coffee and The New York Times and glances at me. He shifts towards me into his ‘I’m getting ready to chat’ pose, and I groan inwardly. I’m suffering, and I would like to stay silent for the entire day.
Cool, composed Emma is on vacation right now.
“You want to talk about last night?” He looks me straight in the eye, all Mr. Serious, and my hair stands on end.
“Last night?” A memory of it, for a start, might be helpful.
He oversees me, and I shift in my space uncomfortably, unsure what’s so fascinating.
What did I do last night besides getting smashed? What does he want to talk about?
“Drunk Emma, as fun as she was, isn’t someone I’ve ever met.” He eyes me accusingly. I already feel apprehensive about his tone.
“Or will likely to again, seeing as I feel like hell,” I grimace, hauling my arm over my eyes so I don’t need to look at him; he’s studying me a little too intensely.
“You want to continue our conversation?” he pushes on, regardless of my ‘go away’ posture, laying his hand casually on my bent knee. It rests quite happily there.
“What conversation?” I ask, genuinely confused, but stay concealed under my arm, my gut churning knowing I may not like this.
“You don’t remember?” The surprise in his voice makes me a little wary. I shake my head as the color rises in my cheeks; Jake never presses for no reason.
What the hell did I say to him last night?
“I put you to bed.”
Well, that explains why my cell was off.
He turns his off every night, whereas I usually don’t. Just in case I’m needed.
“Thanks,” I mumble. I want to ask him what I said, but I don’t because I’m scared. I’m afraid I might actually have told him something I didn’t want him to know.
“You talked about your father,” he says matter-of-factly. Crap. Like that.
The anger rises in me unexpectedly, and it’s too quick to grind back down.
“He’s not my father! He’s just a donor to my existence and nothing more,” I snap, jumping to my feet; his hand falls to the couch, surprising him. The heat rises in my chest; teen Emma’s anger has renewed with a fury, and I’m pissed at myself for her appearance once again. I angrily storm to the kitchenette; I need water and a second to calm down.
And a boss who damn well stops digging into stuff that has nothing to do with him.
“And Ray?” The question is so precise and unimposing yet has a devastating effect on me. Stomach lurching to my throat, I falter and drop my water bottle hard on my foot, giving out a shocked yelp and jumping back as pain sears through my toes.
“Are you okay?” He leans around, looking at me. His eyes are steady on me as I scramble back, but my head reels as I bend down to retrieve the Evian bottle. I take a deep breath through the instant dizziness.
Control, Emma. Control.
I stand back up slowly and deliberately, letting it pass.
How does he know about Ray?
“Fine,” I answer stiffly.
“Come here; we need to talk about this.” He watches me intensely, a no-nonsense expression on his face.
“No,” I close him down and take a gulp of my water; it almost chokes me going down. I feel sick. I want to know what I told him about Ray and my father, but I also don’t want to know or talk about this. Maybe I should tell him I need to throw up and lock myself in my room for an hour, make him leave me alone. I need to think.
“Don’t you trust me, Emma?” He sounds so hurt, it hurts me too and knocks me sideways in surprise.
“Of course, I trust you,” I say, turning to him, flashing anger, incensed at the question.
How could he ask me that?
We’re together almost constantly; I have to trust him. I have never told him otherwise! I do trust him.
I realize it’s the first time I’ve admitted to myself that I do, and it startles me a little as I let it sink in.
I trust Jake! I trust a man! When did that happen? How did that happen?
What’s more impressive is that I trust playboy Casanova Jake Carrero, my heart-throb boss, with his string of women and hands-on personality.
“Then talk to me, Emma,” he presses further, refusing to give up, his eyes still steady on me. I shake my head and turn away because I can’t look at him while feeling so shellshocked.
Why can’t he understand that certain things don’t need to be brought up or discussed?
The past is done, and I’m done with the past; talking about it only makes it linger, bringing it to the forefront of my mind where it has no place to be.
“I don’t need to talk about this,” I huff, urging him to drop it.
He’s on his feet and walking toward me, and I feel trapped as he approaches. I know if I walk off, he’ll follow me. He has that determined expression on his face, usually reserved for stubborn clients. He grabs my upper arm gently and pulls me to face him; his expression is angry, but his manner is calm. I try to twist free, but he holds me tighter; I think he knows I’ll walk off if he lets me go.
“You said he beat you and tried to molest you.”
I gasp and withdraw from him, shocked that I even let that much out in my drunken stupor. My heart flips over in my chest.
Crap. I don’t want him to know about that. What the fuck, Emma?
I don’t want him looking at me like some sad little victim incapable of taking care of herself.
Why would I tell him that?
He seems surprised by my reaction and lets me go instantly.
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