Anabelle
Am I dying?
I must be.
I press a palm to my forehead, feeling for a temperature. Pat my cheeks, feeling the burn. Oh God. I feel like utter shit, stars dancing behind my closed eyelids.
The spins.
The headache.
The nausea.
My hand flies to my stomach, then to my mouth when I try to move, rolling to the side of the bed. I reach my arm over the side, feeling blindly until my fingers find a bucket.
Thank God.
Wait, who put this here?
I flop back on my back, dizzy.
Don’t puke, don’t puke—you are not going to puke. Get it together, Anabelle. You are a grown woman.
I peel my eyelids open, slowly blinking back the sun that’s shining through a window that is most definitely not mine.
Where the hell am I?
This isn’t the ceiling in my bedroom at Dad’s house.
These ugly beige walls aren’t pink.
These navy blue sheets that smell like cologne? Definitely not mine.
I pull them up my chest, to my nose, giving them another whiff and concluding: this bedding unquestionably belongs to a male. Aftershave or woodsy shower gel, it matters not—these sheets smell fan-freaking-tastic.
I’m inhaling the fabric, breathing in the wonderful scent of some nameless, faceless guy, when I notice a lingering figure leaning against the doorjamb, white ceramic mug in his massive paws.
He has a lazy grin on his face, a warm, friendly smile with zero hint of any sexual connotation.
I peer over the hem of the sheet, wanting to curl up into a ball and die, but for entirely different reasons.
I know him.
From the library.
Shit, shit, double shit.
“Morning.” His voice has that low, bottomless, just-woken-up sound men have that I adore, so gravelly you want to climb inside it. He has a morning voice so good it’s giving my drunk self actual shivers.
“Um, morning?” I, on the other hand, sound like a frog, croaking out my pitiful greeting.
“How ya feelin’?” He’s wearing a cutoff navy T-shirt and gray sweats, and I’m hung-over but not freaking blind. My eyes, bless them, travel south to where his pants hang low on his hips, appreciating the view the entire way down.
Down his legs, to his bare feet.
“Hi,” I croak. “Good morning.”
Jesus Anabelle, you already said that! This couldn’t be more awkward.
“Sorry, I already said that.” I press two fingers to my throbbing temples. “I’m a little out of sorts.”
That’s putting it mildly, an exaggerated understatement.
“I’m never drinking again.”
I don’t know why the sight of him standing there is affecting me so much, but his hard, toned arms and slick skin do something to my already muddled, alcohol-soaked brain. Being in his house—hung-over in his house while he stands there drinking coffee, freshly showered and squeaky clean—makes me feel disgusting.
Embarrassed.
I can see from here that his green eyes are assessing me as I sit in the middle of his bed. They’re alert and aware as if he’s had plenty of sleep.
“You had a rough night.” He states it as a fact, and I search his tone for judgment.
There doesn’t seem to be any.
“I did, and I—did I sleep here? Duh, obviously I slept here.” I laugh nervously then groan. Oh God, my head. “Is this your house?”
“It is.” He shifts on his heels, and my eyes roam once again to his bare feet. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought you here last night, but I couldn’t get you to tell me your address.”
My lips barely move as I whisper an appalled, “I am so sorry.”
“And not to sound like a fucking stalker, but once I recognized you and saw how drunk you were getting, there was no way in hell I was leaving you at that party.”
“Why?”
“You couldn’t even stand up, and sorry to be so blunt, but you shouldn’t have been drinking so much—it was a dumb thing to do.”
No doubt I was wallowing in my sorrows. The humiliation from having those wrestlers talking about me and making bets behind my back is embarrassing enough; getting so drunk I don’t remember this guy bringing me home is almost worse.
Anything could have happened last night. Terrible, bad things.
“So you brought me home?”
He sips from that white mug, and I wonder what’s inside. “Yeah, sorry. I didn’t really have any other choice. You weren’t able to tell me where to go and then you passed out when I wouldn’t take you to McDonald’s for French fries.”
“Oh my God.”
I can’t say I’m sorry he didn’t take me home—me showing up on my father’s doorstep completely intoxicated would have destroyed him. He’s never seen me this way, has never seen me as anything other than his perfect little girl. I don’t know what he would’ve done or how he would’ve reacted, but I know he would not have been happy to have some strange guy dropping me off in the middle of the night.
“How did you sleep?” said strange guy asks, fiddling with the handle of the mug, which says, Day drinking from a mug to keep things professional.
Oh the irony.
Despite my throbbing head, the quote makes me smile. I lift a hand, fingering my temple, massaging the tender flesh there, wincing.
“I slept great, thank you. Like the dead.”
“Good. I didn’t quite know where to put you.”
“How did I get in here?”
“I carried you.”
Well this just gets better and better with every passing moment, doesn’t it?
My eyes fly to his arms—toned and taut, not overly bulky. Perfect. He’s not a meathead, but he’s in great shape, and I blush at the smooth tanned skin of his upper arms. His biceps.
Seriously, they are some of the most beautiful arms I’ve seen in my entire life, though maybe I’m still drunk from last night.
I have observed a lot of arms from visiting my dad, have admired a lot of bare torsos. I’ve appreciated the sight of guys traipsing around in nothing but thin, polyester wrestling singlets, and those leave nothing to the imagination.
The guy clears his throat when he catches me eyeing him, lifting the white mug to his lips and taking another sip, breaking the eye contact.
Man, he is so cute.
A blush that matches mine spreads across his cheeks.
He clears his throat again, straightening to his full height. He’s tall, probably around six one, just reaching the top of the doorframe.
“Um, I hate to bother you, but do you happen to have any ibuprofen I can take? My head is killing me.” I groan out loud this time, wanting to burrow back under his covers.
“Sure, in the bathroom.” He offers me a pleasant smile just as my eyes land on the small gray garbage can next to the bed. Thank God I didn’t have to barf in it or this morning would have gone from bad to worse.
“I didn’t…I didn’t, uh, throw up in your car last night, did I?”
I might have been completely blitzed out of my mind, but I do vaguely remember a conversation where he specifically asked me not to puke in his car. I have to wonder now if I did.
His head gives a lazy shake as he laughs. “No, but I think it was close. I seriously thought you were going to toss your cookies.”
“I’m…really glad I didn’t.”
Talk about horrifying.
Not to mention, I had Mexican food last night—me throwing up in his vehicle would have been a nightmare for both of us.
Library Guy stays put, still in the doorway, watching me lie on his bed like a beached porpoise. I roll forward, intent on slowly dragging my feet over the side of his mattress, which is easier said than done when you’re hung-over.
“Please don’t watch,” I murmur, only half joking.
He moves toward me a few inches, unsure. “Do you want a hand getting up?”
“No! No, I’m good. I got this.” Deep cleansing breath in, deep cleansing breath out.
“Take your time, Donnelly, or you’ll be yacking it on my carpet.”
Dear Lord, did he just call me by my last name? I suppose it makes sense given that he knows who my dad is, but still, kind of weird.
“If you don’t mind, I would love to at least use your bathroom, get that headache medicine—my head is pounding.”
“I can get you some water, too. You need to hydrate.”
“Do you happen to have any choco—”
“Chocolate milk? No, but you did ask for it last night.” He chuckles again, this time into his coffee mug.
“Please, can we not talk about what I said last night? I don’t want to know—I don’t know if I’m emotionally equipped to handle it.” I groan when my feet hit the carpet; they’re bare, shoes and socks neatly placed by the door.
I gaze up into his expectant face…his tan, handsome face.
I stumble, grabbing for a nearby dresser, righting myself so I can stand. It’s not easy; everything aches, and also I’m dying.
I’ve never wanted to crawl back under the covers and hide so much in my entire freaking life. My face, cheeks, and chest are a blazing inferno of shame.
Ugh. Shoot me now.
Seriously, put me out of my misery.
“Thank you.” I hesitate, wondering how to broach the next subject, pointing to the rumpled sheets on the bed. “Did we, uh…”
“No, of course not.” He sips from his mug. “I slept on the couch.”
“Oh thank God.”
His brows shoot into his forehead, and I realize that statement sounded worse out loud than it did in my head—my pounding, throbbing, spinning head.
I wave it off. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant…I can’t remember anything from last night and I woke up in your bed and I have no idea how I got here and I’m just really…” Deep breath, Anabelle. “Thank you for being a decent human.”
“No, I get it. It’s fine.”
“I mean it, thank you—and I’m sorry you probably didn’t get much sleep last night being on the couch. That’s so awkward, I’m sorry. I can never sleep on mine.”
His toned, tanned shoulder goes up in a shrug. “I’ve slept in worse spots than the couch, trust me.”
I lean a few feet, capturing my shoes. Socks.
Slide one on, then the other, all the while managing not to fall on my ass.
Rising, I grab my boots. “Where exactly is your bathroom?”
He jams his thumb over his shoulder. “Straight across the hall, can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.”
He moves, giving me a wide berth as I stick my head into the hallway, not sure what I’ll find. I don’t know where I am or how many people live here.
How many guys are likely to see me doing the walk of shame? One? Three? Five?
“I live alone,” his deep voice calls, interrupting my thoughts from what I presume is the kitchen. “It’s safe to come out.” Pause. “You want that water now or something?”
Or something. Like, for example, a stun dart to my ass so I can pass out, wake up on a different day (or century), and remember none of this.
I make the short trek across the hall, using the wall as support, shutting the door behind me and exhaling a loud, relieved breath.
What I need right now is a warm shower, sleep, aspirin, water, and more sleep, in that order.
His bathroom is a decent size, mostly bare save for a few essentials laid out on the countertop. One sink, but a nice, long counter.
One navy blue hand towel folded into a neat square.
It’s not the cleanest bathroom I’ve ever been in, but to be fair, I would have been surprised if it was. He is, after all, a guy living alone—what reason would he have to keep the place spotless?
I brace my arms on the counter, one hand on either side of the sink, raising my eyes to gaze at the reflection in the mirror. It takes a few seconds to focus, the face before me blurred…until it’s not. I lean in closer, pressing my middle and forefinger into my cheeks, pulling at my bottom lids.
Verdict: I don’t look as terrible as I thought I would.
Okay, that’s a lie—I look like total shit.
Ugh.
Staring at the reflection, my expression is horrified. I gape at the sight of my hair, smudged mascara, and tired, red, bloodshot eyes. I’m so embarrassed by the way I look right now, embarrassed that my evening got so out of hand that a stranger—this guy I’ve only ever met once at the library—brought me home with him to keep me safe.
To his house.
To keep me safe.
The thought of all the things that could have happened to me because I was completely drunk? Shameful, upsetting. I could have ended up as one of those girls you see on the evening news or read about online.
Horrible decision to get drunk.
Horrible decision to go out while I was indulging in a pity party.
Horrible decision to allow this guy to bring me home, although I was passed out and couldn’t make the decision for myself.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
This is so unlike me.
I hunt down a clean washcloth, running it under the cold water and scrubbing my face clean. Try to locate a little moisturizer but only find aftershave lotion instead. No brush, but I do find a comb, one that barely pulls through my snarled locks without pulling my hair out.
Ouch.
I train my blue eyes on my clothes; they need to come off and hit the laundry. Gross. There’s a huge, yellow stain on the front of my white top, the flared sleeves wrinkled and looking worse for wear.
Pulling the cap off a tube of toothpaste, I squeeze it onto my finger and rub it along my teeth, the least effective technique for getting them clean, but it’s all I’ve got. Holding my hands under the water, I make a cup, drink, and swish water around my mouth, spitting the water and toothpaste into the sink. Repeat.
Crossing the bathroom, I hook my finger on the shower curtain, drawing it back to peer inside at the beige-colored tiles. Hmmm, a tiled shower? Not bad for a college rental. I wonder what he’d think if I hopped inside and took a quick shower with all his stuff. Would that be weird?
It definitely wouldn’t be any more impolite than crashing his pad and taking up his entire bed.
Contemplating, I grasp a long chunk of my hair, giving it a long whiff: stinky and gross.
I smell like I was in a dirty dive bar, not a harmless house party on Jock Row, and there wasn’t even anyone smoking. Even so, sweat, beer, and too many bodies can’t lead to any good.
My fingers brush the metal faucet. On one hand, I desperately want to jump under the shower spray; on the other, I’d have to put my dirty clothes back on afterward.
Crap.
There is no winning this one.
I let the shower curtain go, backing away.
Heft out a sigh, giving myself another glance in the mirror before tugging open the door. I pass the bedroom I slept in, my curious gaze shooting into the only other room off the hallway. Large wooden desk. Bookshelf. Iowa pennants. Some kind of framed award.
An office? A spare bedroom?
There’s certainly no one living in there.
Hmm.
I trudge down the hall, shoulders back and chin up. Though I didn’t grow up living with my dad, he still taught me some life lessons: do everything with conviction, hold your head up.
My walk of shame begins here.
I can do this. I can walk into this guy’s kitchen and look him in the eye, thank him for everything he did for me last night. I will suck up my pride and have an adult conversation whether there is black mascara smudged under my eyes or not.
I owe him that much.
He’s leaning against a wooden countertop when I walk into the room, that white coffee mug still grasped in his large, mammoth hands.
“Hey.” He nods in my direction. “Feel better?”
“Somewhat human, thanks.”
“You should drink this.” He holds another cup toward me and I take it, bashful now that he’s still being so nice.
He should have kicked me out by now, and I wonder why he hasn’t. I’ve been nothing but a pain in his ass. When will he have had enough?
I sip on the ice water in my hands, grateful for the liquid, which feels wonderful sliding down my throat. I watch him from above the rim of the cup. He’s not creepy at all, despite his size. Tall and built, I can tell he works out. Maybe he plays intramural sports? Goes to the gym? He does something for sure—his arms are way too toned for him to be sitting around doing nothing.
His green eyes never stray from my face, laugh lines appearing at the corners, wrinkling when I plop down in his kitchen chair with a loud sigh.
“I know I’ve already said this several times, but I really am sorry about all this.” I pause, fiddling with the plastic cup in my hands.
“Right place, right time.”
“Yes.” I bow my head, staring down at the cup, reading the screen-printed label on its side. Raise my eyes, shooting him a crooked, wane smile. “You don’t even know my name. I don’t know yours.”
There’s a long silent pause.
“Elliot.”
“Elliot,” I repeat. “What’s your last name?”
He shifts against the counter, stuffing one hand in the pocket of his sweatpants. “St. Charles.”
Elliot St. Charles, ooh la la.
It’s an awesome name I let linger in my mind, turning it around and around, romanticizing it. St. Charles.
Saint Charles.
Charles.
Saint.
“Saint—that’s a nice way to think of you, since you’ve rescued me twice in one week.” I say it softly into the confines of his tiny kitchen; it’s so tiny, there’s barely room for both of us at this small table. “I’m not normally the kind of girl who needs rescuing, let alone this many times within the span of a few short days.”
“Saint.” His expression is impossible to read, his mouth…those lips…an impassive line. “I don’t know if that’s how I’d describe myself.”
“But it seems to suits you.”
Those gorgeous lips twitch. “How would you know?”
My butt wiggles in the chair. “First, you came over to console me in the library.”
“That’s because you stole my spot.”
“I did? How?” What on earth is he talking about?
“That’s the table I sit at when I study.”
I laugh.
Wince because ouch, that hurts my head.
“I’d say I owe it back to you then.”
His nod is slow, deliberate. “I’ll allow it.” Sips from his mug. “What else have I done to earn the nickname?”
“You brought me to your house to keep me safe,” I explain. “A complete stranger. I could have been a complete psycho.”
God, what if I’d puked?
“I could have been a complete psycho, too. Maybe I still am.”
My face flushes red hot, a blush so deep I feel it move from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.
“You are not.”
“How would you know?”
“I opened your cabinets—you don’t have any medications.”
We both laugh, and when he sits down across from me at the small wooden table, I can’t stop the heat warming up my entire body.
His large wide shoulders and smooth exposed skin.
“I might have overstepped my boundaries, but I couldn’t leave you at that party. You were way too drunk.”
Yes, he could have.
He totally could have, and he also could have taken advantage of me, of the fact that I was three sheets to the wind drunk. Trashed. Wasted. Blacked out. Unconscious.
But Elliot didn’t.
He could have done all sorts of terrible things to me and he chose to…keep me safe. What a nice freaking guy.
“Elliot, I’m sure you’ve seen your fair share of drunk chicks about to pass out at parties. What was it that made you leave with me?”
He stares toward the window. Purses his lips. “I knew why you were getting trashed.” Turns to face me. “And trust me, I was trying to get you to your house, but you couldn’t tell your left from your right.”
Taking me home, back to Dad’s would have been a blessing and a curse.
I briefly imagine Elliot taking me to my father’s house, dumping me on the front stoop. Ringing the doorbell and having Dad answer, most likely in his robe, furious.
At me.
At Elliot, because he no doubt would have misinterpreted the entire situation.
Elliot studies me, an easy grin brightening his face, white teeth way too perfect. He’s altogether too alert, way too cheerful considering he spent the entire night on an uncomfortable-looking couch. I give it a glance over my shoulder—no way did his tall frame fit on that thing.
“You’ve only met me once.”
His chuckle is deep. “Let’s just say I have a stronger moral compass than most of my friends. I’d rather see you safely home than take the chance and leave you to the wolves, to the jockholes.”
“Jockholes? That’s a new one.”
“You like? I made it up.”
I like. “Friends with any?”
“Most of my friends are athletes, so yeah, I’m surrounded by douchebags and jockholes.”
“Oh jeez.”
“I lived with two guys on the wrestling team for the past two years. It was a test in patience most of the time.”
“Where’d they go?”
“Graduated.”
“What year are you?”
“Technically I should have gone through commencement last year, but I declared my major too late, and there are a few classes I needed to take before graduating. And one enrichment class.”
An enrichment class—is this guy for real?
“Uh, so you’re taking that class for…?”
“Enrichment.” He casually sips his coffee while I stare at him, confused.
“Which is another word for…”
“Fun?”
Oh Lord. I’d never purposely take a class for fun—not even badminton. Okay fine, one time I took that as a gym class and had a blast, but for real, it costs a fortune just to screw around for an entire semester.
Lesson learned.
“Which class?”
“It’s a science class. It’s not required, but I think it will be beneficial.”
“I’m sure it will be.”
“You can never know enough, uh…” Uncomfortably, his sentence tapers off, missing an important piece. It’s then that I realize, I never introduced myself.
“Oh my God, Elliot, I never told you my name! I’m the worst!” I stick my hand out self-consciously. “I’m Anabelle.”
“Anabelle,” he echoes quietly. Leans back in the chair to watch me before unfolding his arms and reaching to slowly slide his palm across mine, pumping my hand once before dropping it.
Nope. Not awkward in the least.
“Anabelle. I’ve been wondering what your name was.” When his smile disappears into his mug, I dip my head and stare down at my lap, fiddling with the fabric of my jeans, biting back my own, stupid smile.
Elliot’s silent, lazy scrutiny is doing bizarre things to my already quaking insides—plus, he’s one of the good guys, which makes him even more attractive, if that’s even possible.
Unlike those assholes Eric Johnson and Rex Gunderson, who I never want to see again.
“I used to hate my name growing up. It was always so hard for me to spell, and no one gets it right.” One N, not two.
Elliot grins. “Really? I think it’s cute. Anyone ever call you Annie? Or Ana?”
“My dad sometimes. Ana Banana. Jelly Belle.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah.”
The room is awkwardly still while both of us rack our brains for something new to say.
Then, “Oh, before I forget, here.” He produces a smartphone from his pocket that looks suspiciously like mine, sending it gliding across the kitchen table in my direction. “This was in my car last night—I remembered to grab it while you were in the bathroom. It’s been beeping like crazy.”
Tucking an errant hair behind my ear as he looks on, I remove the phone from the table, palming it. Slide my thumb over the screen to unlock it, cringing when I see that my father has texted me eight times in the past twenty minutes.
Great. He obviously thinks I’m dead.
Dad: Where the hell are you?
Dad: Did you come home last night?
Dad: Anabelle, answer me goddammit.
Dad: You better be dead in a ditch somewhere.
Dad: Anabelle Juliet Donnelly
Dad: Young lady, answer your phone. You’re starting to worry Linda.
Dad: Anabelle, if you don’t text me back within ten minutes, so help me God, I’m calling the campus police and the state patrol.
Dad: Five minutes.
Hastily, I tap out a reply: Sorry Dad, just woke up. I stayed at a friend’s house last night. Too much alcohol to make it home.
He wastes no time asking questions.
Dad: Which friend?
Me: Daddy, does it matter?
Dad: Daddy? Now I know you’re up to something.
Are you trying to manipulate me by sweet-talking me? I smell bullshit. Who were you with last night? Was it a guy?
Dad: Has your mother ever given you the sex talk? Do you know the number one disease on college campuses is syphilis? That’s not a rock band or a rash, it’s an STD and you get it by being foolish.
Oh my God.
My phone pings again.
Dad: These college boys only want one thing, Anabelle Juliet.
Okay, now he’s laying it on a little too thick with the middle name business. I’m approaching twenty-two years old for crying out loud. Talk about heavy-handed parenting.
One more reason I need to move out, into my own place.
Me: I’m sorry Dad, but I didn’t want to wake you last night. It was late and I was in no condition to even call for a cab.
Dad: You’re telling me you were so drunk you couldn’t even text your father? What the hell is wrong with you? Have you gone and lost all your common sense?
I take a deep breath and pray for patience.
Me: Dad. I stayed with a friend. It was the best decision last night.
Dad: You should have called me to come pick you up.
I almost type It’s bad enough that I live with my parents but delete it, instead sending him a terse: I appreciate that Dad, but if I’m going to make friends and fit in here, I can’t be calling you to bail me out. I’m not a kid.
A few moments go by before he replies.
Dad: Fair enough.
Dad: When can we expect you home? Linda is making potato salad for lunch and I have to be at the gym for a two-a-dayer.
I sigh. He’s never going to get it.
Me: Tell Linda not to wait, I don’t know when I’ll be home. I’m probably going to stick around town for lunch, grab a coffee. I’ll be back in a few hours, definitely for dinner.
Elliot is watching me but pretending not to, his eyes roaming my face, interested in my expressions as I frantically reply to my dad’s text messages.
I finally set the phone on the table, face down.
Sigh.
“I really should get going.”
“You need a ride?”
“Nah, I’ll catch an Uber.”
“Anabelle, it’s no big deal.”
I reach out, covering his hand with mine. Pull back when his skin sizzles. “I know, but you’ve done enough, gone above and beyond already.” I would die of mortification if he did me one more favor. “I appreciate you helping me, coming to my rescue. I probably won’t ever forget it.”
He demurs. “Don’t worry about it.”
I rise. “All right, well…thanks.” Palm my phone, scrolling through the few apps I have downloaded for transportation, choose one, and click for a ride. “There’s a car less than two minutes away. It’s supposed to be nice today, so I’ll wait outside if you don’t mind.”
He nods as I smooth a hand down my frizzy hair self-consciously.
“Bye Elliot.” I give him a wave, despite the fact that I haven’t left his kitchen. “See you around.”
“See ya. Take care, Donnelly.”
I grin, biting down on my bottom lip. “You, too, Saint Elliot.”