Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Chapter 7
Friday, August 21
The next morning starts with a crisis and a decision: coffee or pills?
My nose makes the decision for me. I wouldn’t say no to an Excedrin, but I’m also painfully—pun intended—aware that my trusty bottle of headache fighter is currently a six-hour flight away in my San Francisco medicine cabinet.
I could go snooping around Colin’s stuff looking for pills, but in my current state, I’m not equipped to deal with him hounding me. Not to mention, I’m not entirely sure the man even owns painkillers. He doesn’t strike me as the type to make bad decisions.
Well, other than marrying me, of course.
I roll out of bed, pausing for a second when I stand to make sure the world doesn’t spin. It’s a hangover all right, but not the worst I’ve ever had.
I open the bedroom door, turn left as I’m used to doing at my bedroom at home, and stop just in time to not collide with the wall. I pivot and shuffle toward the smell of coffee and the sound of kitchen noises.
Colin is standing at the kitchen stove dressed in slacks and an undershirt, his hair still damp from a shower. He does a double take when he sees me.
“What are you wearing?” His accent is thicker than usual when he says it, lilting and a little bit husky.
Since answering stupid questions is a no-go before coffee, I ignore him, instead opening and closing cupboards until I find the mugs. I feel a little pang of homesickness when I see they’re all matching black, and a far cry from my Kate Spade mugs with the bright polka dots, but as long as it can act as a vessel for caffeine, all is forgiven.
I pull the heavy metal carafe off the fancy coffee maker, grateful for its heft because it means Colin’s made a very big pot.
“What are you wearing?” he asks again, and because I’ve taken the first sip of sweet, sweet salvation, I humor him.
“Pajamas.”
“Where’s your robe?”
“Well, Grandpa. I live alone, so I don’t need a robe.”
“Well, you don’t live alone anymore, so yes, you do need a robe.”
I look down at my pajamas, trying to figure out what’s got him acting all constipated. I tend to sleep hot, so even in winter, my pajamas consist of shorts and a tank top. The tank top is low-cut, but my boobs aren’t spilling out, and the shorts, while short, aren’t showing pubes, so why he’s all aflutter is beyond me.
“Quick refresher from yesterday. I’m your roommate, not a guest. You don’t get to tell me what to wear,” I mutter, going around to the barstool and settling.
He shakes his head and turns back to the stove. He holds up a metal bowl. “I was about to scramble some eggs. Want me to make any for you?”
My stomach rolls and I can’t stifle the groan.
He smirks over his shoulder. “Late night?”
I press my fingers to the center of my forehead where the headache seems to be focused. “I caught up with Meghan and somehow forgot about the fact that I’m not twenty-one anymore.”
“Meghan … short? Pink hair?”
I smile even through my pain. “Still short. Hasn’t had pink hair since we were seventeen and she was going through her rebellious stage.”
As opposed to my own rebellious stage, which hadn’t come until a couple of years after that. A rebellious stage that got me into the mess I’m in currently. Well, not the hangover mess. That was one too many glasses of a nice Spanish Tempranillo that followed the cocktails and Champagne. And needless to say, we had not consumed nearly enough tapas to absorb the wine.
I glance at Colin’s broad back, noting the slight flex of muscles as he moves around the kitchen.
“You already went to the gym?” I ask. “I thought you were going to show me where it was.”
“It’s six forty-five.”
“You say that like I slept until noon,” I say.
“I like to be at the office no later than seven thirty.”
I roll my eyes. “What a thrilling life you live.”
He shoots me a look over his shoulder. “Don’t act like you’re in any shape to go to the gym. How’s the headache?”
I wince. “Touché.”
I devote myself to my coffee and am a little surprised when he sets a plate of steaming scrambled eggs in front of me.
“What is this?”
“Breakfast,” he says unceremoniously, sitting on a barstool, though he keeps a seat between us.
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
“Maybe you should. Especially if you’re in the habit of late nights.”
“I’m not, actually,” I admit, staring at the eggs and trying to figure out if they sound like just the thing to help my headache or if they’ll merely tip the scales toward queasy.
“Not in the habit of drinking?” he asks.
“Not like I did last night,” I say, picking up the fork and gingerly taking a bite. “Not when I have to work the next day.”