Hungover
Anastasia
The room is bright.
Too. Bright.
My eyes flutter shut as I am hit with the bashing sunlight streaming relentlessly through the slightly parted curtains and I pull the covers over my head in an attempt to go back to sleep.
Risking a peek once again, I try to locate the alarm clock I usually keep on the side of the bed but my hands drag over smooth, cold marble without touching anything and it takes a while for my brain to register it.
The table is empty.
And white. White and marble instead of a smooth, creaky wood.
Wait—my eyes roam my surroundings, taking in everything in one sweep. Everywhere is white. A sharp contrast to the purple and pink streaks of my bedroom.
And that’s because -- this is not my bedroom. I’ve passed by this room enough to know that—
Oh God!
I’m in one of Jake Keaton’s guest rooms!
In a flash the memories of last night replays in my head like a dramatic movie flashback and alarmed, I abandon the covers and shoot up straight from the bed, horror creeping in every part of my mortified brain.
Adam Keaton, the drink, the tugs, the vomit—
Oh God I’m dead. Kill me. Now.
Suddenly, I am hit with the full force of a splitting headache, smacking my skull with enough force to knock me back down on the bed.
Fucking hangover.
I can’t believe I touched an alcohol-related drink after everything that happened in the past and the worse aspect is I was too daft to even know it was alcoholic.
And I puked – again and again – all over my boss’ suit and my dress and –
I look down at the huge shirt that is draped over my body.
He had to change my OUTFIT!!!
Oh my God, he saw me naked! How can I live my life pretending my boss didn’t just see me naked the night before?!
Can this get any mortifying?
Just then, as if the universe is bent on proving me wrong, the door swings open and Jake Keaton trudges in, the usual weirdly attractive scowl on his face.
He is in a professional suit, one that does nothing to make me forget about the degrading scene yesterday and his eyes take a sweep of my obvious messy hair and red face on the bed earning me a cold smirk.
“Mr. Keaton, let me tell you just how so—” I try to stand again, but the pain in my head makes me go a little dizzy so I plop down on the bed one more time.
He is regarding me with an indifferent look, like he can’t for the love of God, care less about his hungover assistant.
He strides further into the room. “You deserve the pain, Anastasia.”
He pulls the curtains back further and I burrow deep into the covers shielding my eyes away from the sun and the embarrassment.
“I’m really sorry,” I mumble.
There is a pause and somehow I know he is hovering over the bed like a determined genie. “What are you sorry for Anastasia?”
I hesitate. If he doesn’t know what I am sorry for, why rear up ugly heads? But I know damn well that he knows exactly what I am apologizing for and not saying it is only going to make matters worse.
“For puking on you?” the end of the statement is raised slightly so it comes off like a question.
“I don’t know Anastasia. Are you apologizing for puking on me?”
What kind of game is he playing? Why is he bent on making me beg for his forgiveness?
I abandon the covers and spring to my knees so that I am—
Dang it, I didn’t imagine that he could be this close.
Jake is standing just at the edge of the bed so when I bring myself to my knees on the mattress, I am positioned face to face with him thanks to the height of the bed, and although there are few inches between us, this is the closest I’ve ever been with my boss.
I’m about to scuttle backwards when his voice stops me.
“What are you sorry for, Anastasia.”
I clear my throat. “For puking on you.”
“And?”
“And?”
He sighs and his gorgeous face looks a tad disappointed. “You defied my orders, Anastasia. Ain’t you sorry for that?”
I blink. “Defy?”
“I explicitly asked you to stay by my fucking side,” he growls.
“I uh…” why can’t I think of something to say?
“You ignored my message. And spent the night the way you wanted to.”
Well it was a weekend, the voice in my head retorts, I wasn’t supposed to spend it stuck by your side.
Why can’t I say these things to him? Why is his proximity affecting me so much?
I swallow as his gaze deepens and his voice drops.
“Are you not sorry for that?”
“I am,” I give in, because there is absolutely nothing I can do under that heated stare, “I am sor—” my words are cut off abruptly when my right knee slips on the satin sheet and suddenly I’m falling backwards to the bed with a speed I know for sure would send my headache skyrocketing.
I never make it to the bed because strong hands wrap around my waist and pull me back to the position I was and just like that, Jake Keaton is leaning over me, his body slightly pressed to mine and my face merely inches away from his.
I swear, at that moment, it feels like I stop breathing.
My breath probably gets stuck in my throat and all I can hear is the faint thudding of my heartbeat against my ribcage.
Jake has one hand over my back, the one that broke the fall, and his other hand is wound around my waist, hovering just mere inches above my ass and for some reason, my whole body is sensitive to the feel of his strong arms against my body.
His eyes roam over my face and I see the strain in their depths as he stares at me.
Then as if taking no cognizance of the situation of our bodies, he asks in that deep gravelly voice, “Why were you with Adam?”
My mind is racing. I’ve never been touched by Jake before, not even a flick of the fingers or a shake of the hands, but now… now he is not only touching me, he is holding me—and I don’t want to process how good it feels to be in Jake Keaton’s arms.
“Answer the damn question, Anastasia.”
What was the question? Oh right, Adam.
“I don’t –” why was I with Adam in the first place? Forget that. There is only one question in my mind and I blurt it out without thinking.
“Did you undress me last night?” it is a stupid question, considering we are probably the only ones in the house but I have to make sure.
And now that it is hanging out there in the open, I realize how totally awkward my question is.
The corner of Jake’s lips twitches a tiny bit for a millisecond. “You want to know if I saw you naked?”
I feel all the colors rush to my cheek. Here I am, with my boss leaning over me and his hand wrapped around me even though he probably isn’t even giving any thoughts to that and he just asked me a question with the word ‘naked’ stuck in it.
“Y-es.”
He pauses and I go redder as his eyes roam my face. “No, Anastasia. I didn’t see you naked. Satisfied?”
“Oh,” I reply softly. Is that … disappointment?
“Now answer the question. Why were you with Adam?”
Right. “He came over to … he wanted to introduce himself to me.”
“And why did you take the drink. You don’t drink alcohol.”
“I know, I had no idea it had any alcoholic con- wait,” something strikes a chord through the wave of heat coursing through me, “how did you know I don’t—”
He lets go of me abruptly and I stumble back on the bed, my hair falling all around me in its tangled waves.
The curtain is back on his face, all traces of the tight emotions splayed there mere seconds ago vanished.
He shoves a card of pills my way without looking at me. “For the hangover,” he explains, before stepping away from the bed like it is a kind of plague.
I manage to mutter a soft “Thanks,” before he turns back again and I can swear that his eyes do a slow trail of my exposed legs for a second or two before it lands back on my face again.
“Get dressed. Jonas will send you home in an hour,” his icy voice commands before he strides off leaving me to wonder-
What the hell just happened?