by Amy Andrews
He didn’t say anything as she silently shed her last tears, sniffling to bring her emotions under control, breathing in and out to clear the thickening at the back of her throat. Unfortunately, she didn’t feel any more sober, despite the loss of what felt like a pint of tears. Her head spun, her tongue felt thick, and a lethal mix of booze and Nerds churned in her stomach.
Wade leaned forward, lifting his arm from around her and grabbing a tissue from the box. “Here,” he said as he handed it over.
“Thank you.” Her voice was raw from crying as she dabbed at her eyes. She probably looked a fright. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, I—”
“Really,” he interrupted, his voice brooking no argument, his face serious. “It’s fine, Cecilia.”
“Oh God.” CC groaned as her arms prickled with goose bumps and her nipples stiffened beneath her tank top. He was looking at her with his sexy blue eyes, and the way he said Cecilia, kinda stern, kinda husky… Sweet baby Jesus. “It’s bad enough you called me Cecilia in the sex dream. Must you do it to my face, too?”
He stared for a moment and then half laughed as his eyes widened. “What?”
Every muscle CC owned snapped frozen. Except for her heart—it was beating fit to explode. “Crap.” She swallowed as he continued to look at her incredulously. “Did I say that out loud?”
He chuckled. “Oh yeah.”
Mental note—never drink tequila around Wade Carter. “Well…fuck.”
“You had a sex dream about me?”
CC shook her head. All she had left was denial. “No.”
He laughed, the kind of laugh that called bullshit. “Oh yes you did.”
CC’s cheeks were so hot she worried they might burst into flames. It certainly didn’t help prove her innocence. Although being drunk made it slightly less mortifying. And her slightly more candid.
Who needed truth serum when there was tequila?
“Okay, okay fine, I did. But it was only once. And ages ago. I barely remember it.”
CC prayed that God was done with smiting people this week as she lied through her teeth.
“And what did we do in this sex dream?”
Hell no. If she could have stood without falling over she would have. She settled for wriggling as far away from him as she could on the small couch. “I told you I barely remember.” She’d take that shit to the grave with her. “But you weren’t very good.”
It was a desperate attempt to deflect, to throw a dart at his overinflated ego. It failed.
He chuckled. “Oh honey, I think we both know that’s not true.”
CC shut her mind to just how good he had been and lurched to her feet despite the uncoordinated state of her legs. George’s tail thumped as she glared down at Wade. He was looking so full of himself. Like he knew that even in her dreams he was a total sex god. Arrogant damn jock. She should have never opened the door to him.
Standing, however, had not been the best move at this point in her tequila journey. Too much alcohol and Nerds were finally making themselves felt. A sudden roll of nausea cramped through her gut.
“I’m going to be sick.”
Chapter Seventeen
Wade was impressed with both the vivid rainbow effect of Nerds on stomach contents and how much one woman could vomit. He was no stranger to hugging the porcelain bus, but, hell, CC could have puked for America.
There wasn’t much he could do but rub between her shoulder blades and make soothing noises. At least it kept his mind off the tiny palm tree tattoo in the small of her back and the fact she’d confessed to having a sex dream about him. Both of which he was pretty fucking sure she’d have gladly taken to her grave.
Thank you, Jose!
“Oh God…” CC groaned as she came up for some air. “Why did you let me drink so much?”
Wade let the rhetorical question slide. There was no time to answer it, anyway, as she groaned again and hurled one more time.
He rubbed her neck absently as his mind drifted to the sex dream. CC had had a sex dream about him. He supposed he should be alarmed about it—she worked for him, for fuck’s sake. But he was too damn male not to be intrigued by it.
Just what had they gotten up to in this dream?
Her blush, her quick denial, told him it was probably pretty damn explicit, which filled his head with images he’d been trying not to think about since they’d kissed. Up until now, he’d thought that kiss had been an aberration, a one-off thing that had come from nowhere.
Now he wasn’t so sure…
Had it been a moment of unexplained madness, or the result of a deeper craving CC had been masking for who knew how long?
And why the hell wasn’t that thought scaring the crap out of him?
The sudden cessation of CC’s retching brought Wade back to the here and now. He noticed the shake of her hand as she reached for the roll of paper and tore some off, wiping her mouth before grabbing the toilet lid and shutting it, resting her forehead against the plastic.
George whined from outside the door. Wade had shut him out when he’d tried to get his snout in next to CC and lick her face mid-retching.
Wade’s hand rested on her nape. “Okay now?”
She shook her head. “No. I want to die.”
Wade chuckled. “Yeah. Cuervo’s got a kick like a mule.”
Giving her neck one last squeeze, he pushed to his feet and, leaning over her, flushed the toilet. He took two paces to the vanity. Her toothpaste, toothbrush, and floss were lined up like soldiers on the hand towel beside the sink. Even in her grief she was obsessively neat and ordered.
He picked up her toothbrush and loaded it with a generous dollop of toothpaste, noticing with surprise the Broncos T-shirt neatly halved and hanging over the side rail.
Did she wear it to bed? Christ. That was way more titillating than it should have been.
Determinedly dragging his head out of her nightwear, he held the toothbrush toward her. “You wanna brush?”
She nodded, her eyes still closed, her forehead still attached to the lid, but it took her a moment or two to move, and when she finally pushed to her feet, the muscles in her thighs trembled visibly. Wade reached out to grab her arm, suddenly worried her legs might not support her and she’d end up on her ass on the cold, hard tiles.
He knew how weak she must be feeling when she didn’t even bother to shrug his hand away. She glanced at him through her bangs, and, silently, he passed her the toothbrush. She took it, getting it almost to her mouth before her nostrils flared and she thrust it back at him, said “One moment,” and threw herself down on the floor again, whipping the toilet lid open and throwing up some more Technicolor stomach contents.
Her stomach muscles were going to ache like a bitch in the morning. And God knew what her head would feel like.
She was less shaky on the second try of standing, although she did lean heavily against the vanity. She managed her teeth without any further throwing up, however, which was progress, but she looked like hell. Her hair was a disheveled mess, her face was blotchy, and her eyes were bloodshot with dark smudges beneath, and he wondered just how much sleep she’d had these past few days. And how much tequila she’d consumed.
Despite her general scariness, something shifted deep inside Wade’s chest. This was CC, and she was hurting.
She swayed a little as she straightened from rinsing. He handed her a towel, and she wiped her mouth. “Bed?”
It was only eight o’clock, but she was clearly wiped out.
“Yes,” she said, wincing at her face in the mirror before turning away from the sight.
George was thrilled to see her as Wade opened the door, and she gave him a wan smile and patted his head as she made a beeline—a little crookedly, but hardly surprising considering how much booze she had on board—for the
neatly made bed.
She didn’t bother with pulling back the sheets, just threw herself on top, rolled on her side, grabbed the spare pillow, hugged it to her chest, and shut her eyes.
She was out before Wade reached the bed.
He sighed as he looked down at her sleeping form, the bedside lamp throwing her pale features into stark relief. She looked exhausted, the skin of her face stretched taut across her cheekbones.
He told himself not to let his gaze drift any lower. Not to check out the way her underwear had ridden up high on one ass cheek or how that palm tree tat played peek-a-boo with the band of her panties. He told himself not to return to the fascinating issue of what she’d been wearing in the sex dream.
He failed spectacularly at all of them.
George whined, and Wade started guiltily. She was drunk and asleep.
Look away, doofus.
Wade glanced at the dog. George stared back at him, turning his head slightly to one side then the other like he was reading every inappropriate thought circulating through Wade’s head.
The dog obviously wasn’t that dumb.
“What?” he said testily. “Someone who can lick his own balls has no right to judge.”
Not deigning to answer, George took a couple of paces and launched himself onto the bed, settling in beside CC.
Yeah. Not stupid at all.
“No, George.” Wade shook his head. “You’re not even supposed to be in the room.” It may not have been a luxury hotel, but even shitty ones had rules about animals. “You can lie at the bottom.”
Wade pointed to the spot where a wide strip of worn, faded fabric was draped over the end of the bed in some attempt at being fancy. For a few seconds he and George stared each other down. The dog lost, picking himself up and padding to the end of the bed and stretching himself out at CC’s feet, his nose resting against her ankle.
“Good boy.” Wade patted him on the head. George’s tail thumped a couple of times before he shut his eyes.
He glanced back at CC, at all her exposed flesh, and prayed like hell there was a spare blanket in the closet. He almost whooped when there was—a little small and thin, but perfect for his purpose. Hastily he crossed to the bed and covered her, George thumping his tail in approval and his sanity thanking him for the reprieve. His body, however, was not impressed.
That sorted, Wade looked around the room. The only place he could sleep was the couch. It was a foot too small for him, and he knew he’d probably ache like he’d just come off the field in the morning, but he wasn’t going to leave CC.
For a start, he wasn’t sure if Jose was quite finished with her yet, and that was a safety issue. A pro baller he’d known once had been so drunk he’d thrown up in his sleep and asphyxiated on his own vomit and died.
But mostly, she was just too damn sad to leave her.
He’d never seen CC undone by anything. She took everything in her stride. For the first three years of her time with him, she’d been in the middle of the zoo that was the NFL, and nothing had fazed her. It was hard to see her so…lost.
Tonight, he instinctively knew she needed him to be her left tackle.
Wade glanced at his watch—still only just past eight p.m. But it had been a long day, up early to work on the farm then a six-hour drive. He stretched, his back already protesting the couch as he contemplated its ineptness. Sighing, he resigned himself to his fate, sitting on the poor excuse for furniture to toe off his boots, then swinging his legs around.
It took him several minutes to find a position that was halfway comfortable. He doubted he’d get much sleep, but it was probably marginally better than the floor. At least the back of the couch blocked CC’s bed from his view, and with that and the discomfort factor, he might not think about the woman lying a few yards away. Who’d admitted to having a sex dream about him.
Yeah. Probably not… He doubted even electric therapy to his junk would ever erase that from his brain.
He shifted uncomfortably and lifted his back to unbunch his T-shirt. Normally he’d have shucked his clothes off. He usually slept naked, and he stupidly hadn’t brought an extra pair of clothes with him—just showered, changed, and jumped in his car. Removing them was the easy solution both for comfort and not looking like he’d slept in his clothes tomorrow.
But one barely dressed person in this room was more than enough. Fuck. He was never going to sleep.
Surprisingly, though, Wade did. He’d been sleeping well since working on the farm, and the combo of that with the long drive had helped ease him into a slumber he hadn’t thought he’d find.
He woke to a noise some time later. Or rather a wet tongue licking his hand and a whine in his ear, and then the more distant noise of retching coming from the bathroom. Wade vaulted into an upright position, petting George as he squinted at his Smartwatch. Just after midnight.
George whined again. “She’s okay, buddy,” Wade murmured, stroking the dog’s head a couple more times before striding to the bathroom. The door was closed.
“CC?”
There was silence for a beat or two, then a rather cranky, “Go away.”
Wade touched his fingers to the door, torn between leaving her be, like she’d requested, and the urge to take charge. Another round of violent retching had him pushing open the door on a spike of concern.
She was on her haunches, her tattoo on full display. A nerve ticked in Wade’s jaw. “CC?”
“God…Wade…I’m fine,” she said testily, still hugging the toilet as she waved him away with her hand. She didn’t look at him, but her voice sounded thick with emotion. Was she crying? “I don’t want you seeing me like this. Just leave.”
It was a little late for that, but Wade backed away anyway at her firm rebuff. If she was sober enough to crankily order him out and be embarrassed by her state, she didn’t need him. But the emotion in her voice clawed at his gut. If she thought him seeing her crying and throwing up in a bathroom would somehow matter to him, she didn’t know him very well at all.
Was it vanity or some kind of misplaced professionalism? Either way, it was misguided. They weren’t boss and employee right now, no matter how much he was trying to keep her in a box.
She was grieving, and he’d be whoever she needed him to be.
He went back to the lounge, where George was waiting patiently. “She’ll be fine,” he told the dog.
And she would be, but he didn’t think it was going to be tonight.
He sat and ran his hand over George’s head a couple of times before forcing himself to get horizontal again. He didn’t go back to sleep, though. Noises coming from the bathroom seemed magnified in the dark quiet of the room, and he lay there listening. So did George, who was obviously unsettled by CC’s grief. Wade was relieved when he heard the faucet turn on and run for what seemed like forever.
Maybe she was taking a shower?
Fifteen minutes later, the door opened and George deserted him. He heard her footsteps pad over to the bed, listened to the rustling of the bedclothes as she settled. He thought about saying something, asking her how she was, or something, but ultimately decided to keep his mouth shut. She’d been annoyed at his interference earlier, perhaps even a little embarrassed. Maybe not saying anything at all would be easier for her to stand.
But it took only a few minutes of her quiet crying to break his resolve. At first, he didn’t know what it was. She was obviously trying to muffle the sound. But as he lay there straining to interpret the noises, it dawned on him. George’s low sympathetic whines helped.
Wade clenched his fists by his sides, the urge to go to her, to check on her, almost overwhelming. He resisted for another few minutes, but when her very palpable grief showed no signs of abating, he gave in to his instinct to go to her.
George, who’d inched up the bed, his nose on her thigh, thumped his tail as Wade approac
hed. CC had placed a pillow over her head, anchoring it with an arm, her shoulders shaking as she cried muffled tears. She’d changed into the Broncos T-shirt he’d seen in the bathroom earlier. It covered a lot more than what she’d been previously wearing, reaching mid-thigh, which was good.
But the number nine was plastered over the back—his number—and that was not good. It called to every possessive instinct Wade owned, and there were a fuck ton of them right now.
Did she sleep in his number every night? Had she been sleeping in his number the night she’d had the sex dream?
Fuck. He shut his eyes and reached for sanity. Hell, he almost turned his ass around. But another muffled sob sealed his fate.
“CC.”
She groaned, and her shoulders shook some more as she choked out another, “Go away.”
Wade shook his head as he crossed to the other side of the bed. “No.”
He reached over and whipped the pillow off her head.
She made a low rumble of protest at the back of her throat and covered her face with her hands. “Just leave me alone,” she said, her voice thick and hoarse.
Wade shook his head. “No.”
“Wade…Jesus.” She took her hands away and glared at him. His eyes had adjusted enough to the darkened room to see she was all puffy around the eyes. “This isn’t appropriate.”
Wade figured it was a good thing she was obviously sobering up enough to recognize the unorthodox situation and worry about the propriety of it all. “I’m not your boss tonight, CC. And you’re not my employee. Tonight you’re just someone who’s lost her dad, and I’m a friend who’s offering comfort. That’s all. No big deal.”
But that was a lie. It was actually a big, fucking hairy deal. It was a revelation to realize he and CC had moved beyond their contractual relationship without him even realizing. CC had become so much more than his left tackle. She was his confidant, his sounding board, his go-to girl.
He ran everything past her, from his speaking circuit speeches to advertising scripts to press statements and which suit to wear on the red carpet. She’d become his touchstone.
