The aching in my skull ebbed and flowed like a cold tide, yet the pain was a strong, unwanted constant. I felt like the blackest of clouds hung thick and heavy over my head with no intention of clearing any time soon.
Ow. Fuck.
With a groan and a turn, I shifted onto my side only to find I was on the couch in the living room. Camilla stood over me, her eyes filled with equal parts amusement and concern.
“Rough night?” she asked, and I groaned again.
“What time is it?”
“A little after two.”
“In the afternoon?”
“Yep,” she responded, popping her p with a satisfying press of her lips.
Holy shit. I’d slept the whole fucking day away?
“Jesus. I feel like there is a tiny man inside my skull with a drill and an ice pick.”
“I’m pretty sure what you’re feeling right now is what most people would call a hangover.”
God, how much had I drunk last night?
I searched my brain for answers.
I remembered going to the bar.
I remembered talking to Lou.
I remembered drinking beer.
A lot of beer, actually. And liquor.
The memories grew hazy, and I couldn’t remember much after I’d asked Lou for a shot of tequila.
Shit. No wonder I felt like death warmed over.
Wait…how did I get home last night?
“Tell me I didn’t drive home last night,” I said, but my voice was too fucking loud for my own ears, and a sharp sting of pain radiated across my entire face. I grimaced and groaned some more as I angled up to a sitting position.
The room moved and spun, and nausea clenched my gut from the sudden motion. With my elbows resting on my knees, which were still clad in last night’s clothes, I shut my eyes and put my head in my hands.
The couch shifted beside me as Camilla sat down, and I had the irrational urge to smack her for moving around so much.
I peeked one eye open and peered at her from beneath my hands, and she offered a comforting smile.
“You didn’t drive home last night.”
Thank God.
But before I could ask her any more questions, my stomach rolled and swirled with nausea, and I knew that the illustrious time anyone with a hangover dreads was about to occur.
“Oh God,” I muttered, lifting my head off my knees and slapping a hand over my mouth.
“You okay?” Camilla asked, but there was no time to respond.
Quick and unsteady, I hopped to my feet, damn near tripping over the afghan in my lap as I did. As fast as my legs could take me, I made a mad dash for the bathroom. Vomit slid up my throat, and I barely made it to the toilet in time for the painful purge of anything and everything I’d poured into my body last night.
Heave after heave, I prayed to the porcelain gods, my body shaking from the assault.
Good Lord, why did I drink so much last night?
It felt like hours, even though it was probably only a few minutes.
Eventually, my stomach settled enough for me to lift my head away from the toilet and swipe a shaky hand across my face, brushing away the rogue tears running down my cheeks. Drained, sweaty, and too weak to stand, I sat on the cool tile of the bathroom floor and mentally berated myself for overdoing it so much.
This hangover felt like a goddamn balloon beneath my skull, slowly being inflated until the pressure mounted to a near intolerable ache.
Never again, I told myself the same lie everyone told themselves after a drunken night. I will never drink that much again.
My joints creaked and popped like an old wooden chair as I pushed to my feet.
I swished the bile out of my mouth and splashed cold water onto the clammy skin of my face just to feel something refreshing, and instantly, I wished I could wash my brain free of the toxins too.
One glance in the mirror and the woman staring back at me was a sad, pathetic shell of herself. Her normally bright eyes were a lattice of pink and bloodshot, and the normally smooth skin of her cheeks appeared ruddy and devoid of life.
I cleared my throat, and it felt like sandpaper scraping together.
Basically, everything hurt.
It hurt to move. It hurt to swallow. It hurt to blink.
It was like the flu, only self-inflicted. Which meant I deserved no sympathy from anyone. Not even myself.
“You okay?” Camilla called from the living room just as I found the strength to step out of the bathroom.
“I’ve been better,” I muttered and shuffled my feet across the hardwood floor until I could plop my pitiful self back onto the couch.
Just as I sat down, my ass vibrated, and I startled at the feel before realizing it was my phone. I moaned my discomfort as I lazily tilted to the side and pulled it from my pocket.
With one glance at the screen, I found a text notification from an unknown number. A lazy tap of my index finger and I pulled up my inbox and had to blink almost three times just to focus my eyes to read the message.
Two messages, in fact.
Unknown: Just wanted to make sure you’re doing okay today.
Unknown: This is Levi, by the way.
Shock consumed me. Of all the people I expected or wanted to see a text from, this man was at the very bottom of my fucking list.
How had he gotten my phone number?
Confused, I looked toward Camilla and held the screen of my phone so she could read it.
“Did you give Levi my phone number?” I asked. “And why is he asking me if I’m okay?”
“No, I didn’t, but…” She paused for a moment as her eyes searched mine. Eventually, she lifted her brows in surprise. “You really don’t remember?”
“Don’t remember what?”
“Levi is the one who picked you up from the bar last night and drove you home.”
Hold the fucking phone.
“What?” I questioned, even though I understood every word that’d left her lips.
“He brought you home last night, Ivy,” she said, her voice a little too soft for my liking.
“Was he at Ruby Jane’s too?”
“No.” She shook her head, and her red locks slid across her shoulders. “Well, he wasn’t there drinking with you. He only went down there to pick you up and make sure you got home safely.”
I narrowed my eyes. “How in the hell did he know I was there?”
“The bartender called him.”
God, how drunk had I gotten last night?
I searched and searched the recesses of my brain, but it all felt like a muddled mess locked tight inside a black hole.
“It was actually pretty sweet, Ivy,” Camilla added, but before she could say anything else I most likely did not want to hear, three knocks to the door gave her pause.
She rose to her feet, and with a turn of her wrist, she opened the front door. A vision of red and white roses filled the view, until a man dressed in an FTD uniform lowered the floral arrangement to his waist, revealing his face and chest.
“Uh…can I help you with something?” Camilla asked, and he offered a full-toothed, friendly smile.
“I have a delivery for an Ivy Stone.”
Too surprised to question, I stood and walked over to the door, stopping once I was shoulder-to-shoulder with my sister.
“Mind signing here for me?” he asked, and simply at a loss for words, I nodded and grabbed the stylus from his hands.
Sloppy and quick, I signed my name, and before I knew it, the front door was closed, and Camilla and I were staring at one huge fucking bouquet of roses sitting on the dining room table.
She snagged a small white card tucked inside the bouquet and read it aloud.
“Ivy, your beauty takes my breath away. I crave to look into your eyes. I crave to kiss your perfect lips. Love, Me.”
“Me?” I furrowed my brow. “Who the fuck is me? And more than that, not many people know that I’m in Cold, Montana right now.”
Crave to look into my eyes?
It sure as fuck didn’t ring any bells.
Crave to kiss my perfect lips?
Until it did.
Kiss. That four-letter word spurred an onslaught of memories to flood my brain like a goddamn hurricane.
I’d kissed Levi last night.
I’d thrown myself into his arms, and I’d kissed him until he wouldn’t let me kiss him anymore.
Oh, fuck.
I organized the details inside my head.
I’d kissed him last night.
He’d driven me home from the bar.
He’d somehow gotten my phone number and texted me this morning.
Like cold water was being tossed at my face, I startled from the surprise of it all.
Had he sent me fucking flowers too?