Still a true statement, but embarrassment floods my veins, heating them. He’s not flirting with you or propositioning you, dumbass. Right. Of course not.
“I meant—”
“I like being alone,” I cut him off. I know what he meant. “I like the quiet and the peace that comes with it and I figure if you can’t be happy alone with yourself, you’ll never really be happy around another person. You know?”
“No.”
He sighs and drains the shot glass. When he reaches for the bottle, I take it from him, holding it out of his reach. He eyes the bottle of bourbon like I imagine he focuses on the puck during a game.
Softening my voice, I ask, “I know I’ve asked, and I know you lied. You can tell me what’s wrong. I won’t repeat it to anyone.”
His thumb on his left hand twirls his black, thick wedding band, but he doesn’t take his laser-focus off the bottle in my hand. “Just a shitty time. Can I have my drink now?”
I debate. He’s had enough. At this point, even getting his drunk butt into an Uber will be difficult. At five-two, I’m not exactly big enough or strong enough to carry the guy out if need be. Plus, who’s to say the Uber driver won’t figure out who he is and I don’t know… kidnap him? Steal his wallet?
The poor man is screaming sadness.
“Sure, hotshot.” I pour his glass, clean up the bar, and say goodnight to Steve when it hits one o’clock in the morning. He and his old war buddies take off with a wave and a concerned look at Sebastian still hunched over my bar.
Then we’re left alone, which he doesn’t seem to mind ironically given his earlier question and I’m left to figure out what in the heck to do with him now.
Chapter Three
Sebastian
“Fuck.” I press my hands to my temples to try to settle the thundering in my brain to no avail. Holy shit, I got trashed last night. I don’t remember much after the short conversation I had with Gigi. Like, how I got home.
I roll over and the scent of something minty makes my stomach roll and forces me to open my eyes. Madison doesn’t wear anything minty. She’s more floral and elegance.
Two things become immediately clear as I peel my first eye open, feeling like I might have scrubbed my eyes with sandpaper before passing out. One, the harsh reminder of Madison immediately brings to the forefront her stupid, fucking insensitive note she had delivered with the divorce papers.
And two… I have absolutely, no damn clue where I am.
I’m staring at some bright, psychedelic colored wall-hanging. It looks like it was tie-dyed by a small child. The sheets I’m on are most definitely not the white linens I’m used to from either my home or my experience in hotels. The lemon-colored sheets are almost blinding and with all the bright colors, I squeeze my eyes closed and roll to the other side.
Nope. The view is no better on this side where the only thing in front of me is a dresser that looks to be fifty years old and is covered with all manner of jewelry and trinkets flung all over the top, barely hiding the thin layer of dust I can see from this angle.
“Holy shit. What the hell happened?”
I sit up and scrub my face.
If I wasn’t feeling two seconds away from emptying the bottle I drained last night, I’d be up on my feet by now. Or hell, if I didn’t drink that entire bottle, I’d probably know where in the hell I was or what happened or how I ended up here.
A scent of something else filters in and I crack open my eyes.
Damn, I hurt.
There’s no door to the bedroom I’m in that isn’t only full of bright colors and loud wall-hangings, but clothes and knick-knacks in every corner.
If I was in my home, I’d think I was robbed, but since this is most definitely not any home I’ve ever been in, I cautiously peek beneath the covers. I’m wearing the same shirt I threw on last night after I worked out for hours and I still couldn’t get rid of the permeating anger coursing through my system. My boxers are on too, and I tip my head back and stare at the ceiling.
A shaky sigh of relief flows through my parched lips.
There’s no way I screwed some random woman last night. No way. No way I could have been that drunk and even pissed off at Madison, there’s no way I’d cheat on my wife, if I can even still call her that.
Shit. I should probably figure this out. Apologize to the woman whose home I’m in and hope like hell she doesn’t expect anything from me for whatever fool I made of myself last night.
Gingerly, I swing my legs to the floor and find my jeans and sweatshirt tossed in a pile on a small clean area of the floor.
I have my back to the opening, clothes in hand, and I recognize the sounds of cooking from the kitchen. Pots clanking. Water running. Quiet footsteps…
I pause at the sound.
“Oh. You’re awake. How do you feel?”
Like I got hit by a truck. I vaguely recognize the voice so I turn cautiously, shoving my arms through the sleeves of my sweatshirt.
“Gigi,” I sigh. “Thank fuck it’s you.”
She smirks and holds up a glass of water and a bottle of pain medicine. “You were out. I hope you didn’t have to get up for practice or anything today. I was going to leave these for you on the nightstand.”
I peer down at the piece of furniture she’s talking about and arch a brow when I look back at her.
She laughs, and there’s something about her voice I like. It’s low. A little husky. Definitely not high-pitched or whiny or refined. It’s nice.
It’s at least not making my hangover worse.
“Okay. I’m a lousy housekeeper and I despise cleaning. But do you need them?”
“Yeah.” I shrug my sweatshirt over my head and yank it down, dodging high-heeled shoes and boots and jeans and sweaters on the floor while Gigi grins at me.
I take the pills and water from her.
“Thank you. I think there might be parts of the night that are hazy to me—”
“No need to freak out. I slept on the couch. Was barely able to get you up here. And before you ask, there was no way I was putting you in an Uber in your condition. As much as I tried to get you to stop drinking, well, it seemed like you needed it.”
“Good.” I sigh and then cringe. “Not that…”
“You’re married and a good guy, Sebastian. Nothing happened and you didn’t try, and even if you had, I would have still slept on the couch and tossed you into my bed. No harm, I promise.”
Something settles in my stomach. Everything she says is a relief. Except for the fact I’m not married. Or won’t be soon. “Thanks, Gigi.”
“No problem. I’ve made some sausage and eggs and toast. Want anything?”
My stomach turns at the thought of putting anything into it. “Actually, I could use the restroom. And then I’ll decide.”
“Right that way.” She flings out her arm and gestures to a door beyond the curved entrance to her bedroom area.
I step around her, scrubbing my hair and trying to clear my throat. It’s almost as dry as my eyes.
This isn’t me. I don’t get passed out, blackout drunk with a woman who isn’t my wife. Hell, I don’t with my wife. I have an excuse, but I hate this feeling. Even more, the awkwardness of knowing for the first time since I was fifteen years old I’ve spent the night with another woman… sleeping arrangements aside, I’ve done it.