The pounding in my head accelerated, and as soon as I opened my eyes, I shut them tightly again as light registered in my brain. It was as though every sensory element in my mind was heightened, making my stomach queasy and equilibrium unstable.

"The garbage is right by the bed," a familiar voice spoke.

Sexy. Sultry. Masculine. That voice could only belong to one person.

Cade.

I jolted to a sitting position, pulling the sheets closer to my chest. The abrupt movement had my head spinning.

Cade was in all his wonderful glory, shirtless with only his boxers on. He sat on the edge of the bed, placed a hand on my shoulder and ushered me gently against the headboard. "Rest."

Angelica Armstrong. Think, think, think. What have you done?

I remembered drinking.

And more drinking ...

And the last thing I recalled was laughing, though the rest was fuzzy. I most definitely did not know the specifics of how I had gotten into his room, or worse ... into his bed.

My eyebrows pulled together as I tried to calm my hammering pulse. I drew my shaky palm to the top of my hair as my other hand began to fan myself. In about two seconds, I knew I was going to have a nervous breakdown.

I took deep breaths in my nose and out through my mouth in a repetitive motion to calm myself. But it wasn’t working.

"Angel, uh ... you don't look too good." His tone heightened with worry. "Are you okay?"

I shook my head vigorously; the room was spinning faster and faster, my body uneasy, my stomach woozy. Then I tried to stop the dizzying effect the room had on my senses by staying as still as possible.

He knelt right next to me, asking me again, then placing one hand on the sheet that covered my thigh. "I'll grab you some water."

He shifted, and the small movement caused my stomach to flip erratically. And that's when the gurgling in my belly began, and the queasiness in the pit of my stomach spread to the top of my throat.

I threw one arm over my mouth and tried to push myself off the bed when the oversized shirt rose to the top of my thighs, and I realized I didn't have any underwear on, shocking me and stopping me in my spot. That hesitation had me done for, and it was too late. I cupped both hands to my mouth, but not before I threw up everywhere. On his bed. On his sheets. All over myself.

Tears sprang, from embarrassment, from guilt. I couldn't even wipe them off my face and prevent them from falling because there was vomit in my hands.

"Angel, you're going to be okay." He scurried to the bathroom and came back with a basin and washcloth in one hand, while he held a small trash can in the other.

I emptied my hands into the garbage.

"Don't. I can do it," I said through muffled sobs and wiping my mouth with the edge of my sleeve.

He leaned in, so close, I knew he could smell the foul stench of whatever had been in my stomach.

"Stop," I begged, not able to look him in the eyes.

He folded the soiled sheets over, knelt beside me and reached for my palm, not caring that I was still filthy, and wiped down each finger. He dipped the washcloth in the basin, rinsed it and repeated the motion of wiping me clean. "Relax. This is me taking care of you."

More tears surfaced at his gentleness, at the softness in his tone, at the tenderness of his touch. I wanted to tell him that wasn't his job, but I didn't, afraid to speak, afraid to move because my mind was mush and my stomach was uneasy, and the guilt was overwhelming.

I was sure I should’ve told him a million things last night, things a responsible adult should be saying, but I was certain I didn't, or I wouldn’t have ended up here. If I couldn't resist him when I was stone cold sober, there was no way I could've resisted him when I was drunk.

When he was done cleaning my hands, he reached over to the side table and pulled a Kleenex from the box, dabbing at my cheeks. "There, all done."

The sentiment was so sincere, so sweet, that the tears welled up again. I was used to taking care of everyone else—Tene when she was butt-ass drunk; my mother when she couldn't function when my father was sick; and Roland, functioning as his live-in mother sometimes.

I stared up at Cade with newfound wonder and straightened on his bed. It felt nice to be taken care of, for once.

One slight movement and he would’ve seen my hooha, though I knew he'd more than seen it the night before. Still, I didn't want to give him a second glimpse as I pulled the other sheet over my knees.

"Th-thank you." I had been crying so much that I was now hiccupping.

A fresh round of tears started to fall. All I could think of was my stupidity at getting so wasted that I didn't even remember what had happened last night. If I was going to have sex with the hot bartender, I should’ve at least remembered it.

He sat beside me quietly, staring, studying, not smiling. He placed one hand over the blanket, touching my leg. "Nothing happened, Angel."

I perked up and took in his face, the seriousness in his tone. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, we didn't have sex. You were drunk, and I'm not that guy." He smiled. "My mother did not raise three men to take advantage of women."

I dabbed my eyes with the Kleenex. I still didn't have the ability to find my voice.

"Though, damn, I wanted to. But I'm really not into paraphilia. I like my women wide awake, lively, and begging for more," he joked.

I lifted the blanket from my legs. Yep. Still no underwear, like they would’ve automatically appeared.

He cleared his throat. "When you—as you said it—had to ‘tinkle’ in my bathroom, you slipped off your underwear and refused to put them back on."

"Oh ..." My face turned tomato red, the heat rushing to the apples of my cheeks.

"Oh, yeah, Angel.” He nodded. “And when I insisted you put them back on, you took off your silk blouse too." He smiled his crooked smile and blew out a low, hoarse whistle. "That was a sight to see."

"And then what happened?" I pressed, not wanting to hear more but needing to.

"And then, you passed out. Cold. Naked. On my floor."

He leaned in closer as this mischievous glint glimmered in his eye. "God, you're the sexiest little thing I've ever seen."

My forehead heated. Can your forehead turn red? Because I was pretty sure that it was. Visible sweating was taking place. "You managed to get my shirt back on, but not my underwear?” I asked, quirking an eyebrow.

He grimaced with humor. "Well, every time I tried to get your underwear back on, you kept kicking your feet." He let out a thick, throaty laugh.

I dropped my head in my hands. This could not get any worse. Or could it?

"Let's just say, I tried twice. I could’ve tried harder, but shit, baby ... that ass. That perfect ass of yours." He bit his fist, looking tortured. "I just wanted to take a bite."

I peered at him through my fingers. "You bit my ass?"

"No, but I wanted to. I did enjoy the view, though."

I dropped my hand and pulled the blanket closer to my chest. "Pervert," I muttered, not really upset with him. Just that my life was over. All of it. I could never face this man again, yet I knew I’d have to.

He raised one eyebrow, looking amused. "I'm only a pervert if you didn't like me checking out your ass."

His flirty look had my lips wanting to curl up in a smile. "I'm so embarrassed. I don't think I want to hear anymore. Would you please stop?"

"Okay. Stopped." He pressed his lips into a tight line as if gluing them shut.

We sat in silence as I wrung my hands in my lap. "Promise me you'll never make me a drink again."

His laughter floated up his throat. "But I haven't had that much fun in a while."

"Cade."

"Okay." His eyes were sincere, and he raised one hand as though saying an oath. "I promise."

I bit my lip and peered over at him sheepishly. "Thanks. You know ... for taking care of me and all.” I twisted the bed sheet within my fingertips. “That's never happened to me before. Ever. Where I drank myself into oblivion."

He shrugged. "It's okay. Everyone needs to let loose once in awhile, and it's not like I've never got butt-ass wasted before."

He tipped his chin. "It's nothing, Angel. I'm used to taking care of people. It's what I do." He moved from the bed and stood. "Candice was an alcoholic, among other things, so I know all about cleaning up puke." He turned to walk toward the bathroom, taking the basin full of my vomit with him. "I took care of her until she killed herself in the car accident. My father was in the car, too."

I gasped, and my hand flew to my parted lips. I didn't see his face, but I could only imagine what he was feeling. The little tidbits I’d learned about his family explained so much about Cade, yet a big part of me believed I hadn’t even scratched the surface.