Chapter 70
Emily's POV
I tried to form the words to say something, tried to ask where we were going, but my tongue felt thick and useless and all that came out was a slurred noise that might have been a question.
When did Alex even get there? Had the bartender called him? Had I called him? I couldn't remember. Couldn't remember anything past the guy at the bar sitting too close, past the bartender's concerned face, past the sick panic of realizing I had no one to call who would actually show up.
Except apparently I did. Except Alex was here, in the back of this cab, and we were going somewhere that wasn't my apartment.
The address kept circling in my head, nagging at me through the haze. I knew it. I'd seen it before. Written it down somewhere. My brain moved like sludge, trying to connect the dots, trying to figure out why it sounded so familiar.
The cab turned and I felt the motion rock through me, the world tilting and swaying. Or maybe that was just me. Everything felt unstable, like I was floating, like gravity had stopped working properly. Something about work. Something about a document I'd sent. A return address I'd written down.
The swaying continued and I watched the white ceiling move above me, rising and falling in a rhythm that didn't quite match the turns of the cab. Wait. Why would a cab have a white ceiling? The thought drifted through my consciousness but I couldn't quite hold onto it. I was still trying to remember the address. That was more important. That was the problem I needed to solve.
The packet I'd mailed to the legal team last month. That was it. I'd copied an address from somewhere. From Alex's business card. The one with his personal contact information.
Alex's house.
The answer dropped into place with a little click of satisfaction and I felt absurdly pleased with myself. See? I wasn't that drunk. I could still figure things out. Could still solve problems. My brain was working just fine, thank you very much.
The ceiling kept moving and somewhere in the distance I heard a moan, felt something soft under my back that definitely wasn't vinyl cab seats, but I was too focused on my tiny victory to worry about it. I'd remembered. I'd figured it out. I was going to Alex's house and I'd worked out where I'd seen that address before and that meant I was still in control, still functional, still—
Wait.
Why was I going to Alex's house?
The question formed slowly, pushing through the fog, and suddenly the satisfaction evaporated. That wasn't right. That wasn't where I was supposed to go. I needed to go home. To my apartment. To my own bed. Not to—
But the thought wouldn't complete. Wouldn't connect to anything solid. The ceiling above me blurred and darkened and I tried to hold onto the worry, tried to figure out why it mattered, but everything was slipping away like water through my fingers.
Light. Too much light.
I jolted awake—
Alex's house. We'd been going to Alex's house.
And now—
I forced my eyes open again, slower this time, and the room came into focus in pieces. High ceiling. Crown molding. Elegant furniture. Hardwood floors partially visible where the area rug didn't reach.
This wasn't my apartment. This wasn't even close to my apartment.
This was Alex's bedroom.
My heart kicked hard against my ribs and I tried to sit up, but the motion sent a wave of nausea rolling through me and I had to stop, had to breathe through it, had to wait for the world to stop spinning. When I could move again I looked down and my stomach dropped straight through the floor.
I was naked. Completely naked. In a bed I didn't recognize.
And Alex was next to me, still asleep, one arm thrown across his face, the sheet pooled at his waist.
Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. My brain was trying to process what had happened, trying to fill in the enormous blank space between that realization—Alex's house—and waking up here, and it kept coming up empty. I didn't remember arriving. Didn't remember getting out of the cab, walking inside, coming upstairs. Didn't remember getting undressed, getting into this bed. Didn't remember anything.
But I was here. Naked. In Alex's bed. And the implications of that were crashing over me like waves, each one worse than the last.
I slept with him. I must have. Why else would I be here like this? Why else would my body feel this way—sore in places that had nothing to do with hangovers, marked in ways I could feel even through the pounding in my skull?
My hands were shaking. I pulled the sheet up over my chest and just sat there, trying to make sense of this, trying to remember anything at all. But there was nothing. Just fragments. Alex in the cab. His voice giving that address. And then nothing until the light hit my face and I woke up here.
Ethan and I had just broken up. Less than twelve hours ago. And I'd—what? Gone straight to my boss? Gotten drunk and fallen into bed with the man Ethan had accused me of wanting all along?
The nausea came back, stronger this time, and I had to press my hand over my mouth to keep from being sick right there. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real.
But Alex was right there next to me, breathing slowly and evenly, and the morning light was streaming through the windows, and my clothes were—where were my clothes?
I couldn't see them anywhere. Couldn't see anything familiar except my phone on the nightstand, screen dark and accusatory.