Chapter 15

Grayson

DAY 11

Oh, god, where the hell am I?

I open my eyes, and my head pounds like there’s tiny guys with jackhammers inside it. Thump. Thump. Thump. The bright sunlight streaming through the white voile curtains makes me squint with pain. All the furniture in here is white. Blinding. I’m certainly not in the dark, dusty, wood-paneled Fairfax mansion.

Oh, I remember. I’m in the hotel in town. Where’s Isabella? I sit up with a jerk and look around me. There she is. Sitting at the desk, tapping away on her laptop. I feel a sense of dread, with no idea where it comes from.

“Oh, finally up, are you?” She taps on the keys still and doesn’t look in my direction. Her voice is cold. Oh fuck, what have I done?

A dizziness hits me, and I have to sprawl back on the bed. I grip my head. “What the fuck happened last night?”

“Nothing of note.”

“When did we come back?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I came back around midnight. You somehow made it back at some point. And threw up all over the bathroom.”

“Hell.”

“Yes, that was a nice sight first thing in the morning. I nearly stepped in it.”

I roll over, feeling like death. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll have to apologize to the poor maid. She had to clean it up.”

“That’s their job, isn’t it?”

“No,” she snaps. “Their job is to change sheets and vacuum and dust. Not clean up the vomit of a grown man. You made a fool of yourself.”

“Nothing this town hasn’t seen before. Oh. I remember a little now. You wouldn’t dance. You stood at the bar looking like someone had killed your cat.”

“I have no time to talk about this.” She rearranges the papers on the desk, agitated. “I’m busy with paperwork. Business. Responsibility. Something you know nothing about.”

I really don’t have the energy for this. I roll over to the phone.

“Front desk, how can I help?”

“Send up some breakfast to me, please.” My groaning voice is not attractive.

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s 11:30, and breakfast finished at 10.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Isabella clicks her shoe against the table leg, over and over again. “If you can drag yourself out of bed, Gray, the checkout time is noon.”

“Right.”

I heave myself out of bed and pad to the shower. Somehow, I manage to get through ablutions, and by a quarter past noon, we’ve checked out and are sitting in the greasy spoon I always come to after a heavy hangover. I order a full English breakfast, which thankfully they serve all day every day, with a mug of sweet tea on the side. Isabella gets a black coffee and sips it with tight lips. She goes through her papers, marking parts out with a red pen, refusing to meet my eyes.

When my breakfast comes, I try to make conversation. Mushrooms, hash browns, fried eggs, baked beans, sausages, fried bread, and bacon. “Have you ever had an English breakfast before?”

“No.” She surveys my meal. “Looks like a heart attack on a plate.”

I’m tired as hell but try to laugh. I want to reestablish the connection. “You’re right. It’s a once-in-a-while treat. When I’m extremely hungover.”

“Wouldn’t that be every day then?”

“I’m not an alcoholic, Isabella.” Her tone got under my skin.

“A funaholic.”

“Stop judging me. That’s all you do. Judge judge judge.” I tuck into my meal with a vengeance.

“You’re actually judging me for judging,” she says, looking back down at her papers. “Thankfully, I don’t put much stock in your opinion.”

“Don’t I know it.” I spear a hash brown. “You couldn’t have a lower opinion of me if you’d found me on the bottom of your shoe.”

She purses her lips. “Don’t feel sorry for yourself. We’re just not compatible.”

“I’ll say.” I watch her. Her beautiful, self-righteous face hits me in the heart like a sucker punch. “Why are you acting like such a bitch this morning? What exactly did I do to you?”

“Charming,” she says. “So, first you dance the night away with hot sexy aristocrat Lillia Smythe-Darcy. And now you call me a bitch. This is wonderful. Just wonderful.”

“I didn’t call you a bitch,” I say hotly. “I asked why you were acting like one. That means you’re not one.” That sounds really lame coming out of my mouth. “But what was that about Lilly?”

“You were dancing with her. Don’t you remember?”

“You’re making that up.”

“Ha!” She says it so loud other patrons turn to stare. “Yeah. It’s my wildest fantasy. To see her gyrating and making eyes at you. It was amazing.”

I try to scan back in my memory, but I really can’t remember. In truth, there were a lot of girls gyrating and making eyes at me. That’s par for the course. “You know I can’t stand Lilly. Why would I dance with her? I don’t even want to get a glimpse of her.”

“Maybe it’s all an act.” Isabella doesn’t look up. “I think you’re still in love with her, just denying it to yourself. And I think she knows that, too.”

“What?” I slam my fist down on the table, and the sweet tea sloshes over the side of the mug. The cutlery clatters. People stare.

Isabella gives me an icy stare. “I’ll finish up my paperwork in the car.”