He set the keys on the table closest to her and closed the door.
“She’s not horrifying. She’s just being a little more candid than she’d like if she were sober.” Gabe gestured toward the open door of her bedroom.
Her hip hit the table when she turned, but she bounced off it and moved toward her bedroom. Gabe let his hands hover near her shoulders in case she started to lean. Once they reached her bedroom, he grabbed the blankets and pulled them back so she could just fall in. She tipped helpfully onto the mattress, then twisted around to look up at him.
“Are you sure you won’t stay?” she asked with the sweetest smile.
“Something tells me you’re not quite lucid,” he said as he took the purse she’d snuggled up to and put it on her nightstand. He snapped the covers over her before he could let himself notice that her dress had ridden up to expose more of those soft thighs now. Soft, until she shifted and tension added muscle definition. “So...” he said, forcing his thoughts off her legs, “I’m going to get you a big glass of water, and then I’ll leave.”
“That makes me sad.” Her bottom lip curved into a luscious little pout that made him want to taste her. “I want you to stay.”
“We can talk when you’re sober.”
“Promise?”
When he nodded, her pout turned to a smile. But then the smile wavered. Her eyes glistened.
“Are you okay?” he asked in alarm.
“Yes. You’re just so nice, Gabe.” She sniffled and a tear escaped. Then another. “And so hot. Just so, so hot.”
His laugh was half horror and half amusement. He handed her a tissue, then escaped to the kitchen to get a glass of water. “Here,” he said when he returned. “I think you’d better drink some of this. Can you sit up?”
She gave him a thumbs-up but didn’t move.
“Come on,” he said, carefully sliding his hand behind her neck to help her raise herself up. She cooperated with another smile that was ruined by her having to sniff back tears several times, but then she dutifully drank a third of the glass while he watched.
He pulled the covers up again when she lay down, then backed away. “Need an alarm?” he asked. It was only ten, but she might sleep for quite a while.
“Nope. I work from home.”
He smiled at her fit of giggles, then raised his hand. “Good night, Dear Veronica. It was a hell of a show.”
She aimed a finger pistol at him and winked as she pulled the trigger. “Thanks, Gabe. Don’t forget your promise.”
“I’ll make you a deal. I won’t forget if you don’t.” He had a very strong feeling that she wouldn’t remember any of this tomorrow. And an even stronger feeling that she’d be sorry if she did.
He turned off her lights and locked the thumb lock on her front door before he stepped outside, grateful that he had time alone to process what she’d said to him. Still, he was smiling as he hit the sidewalk and headed for his own place a block away. No, Veronica Chandler was nothing like he’d thought she’d be. And he was kind of...thrilled.
VERONICA KNEW SHE was hungover before she even opened her eyes, but opening her eyes confirmed the state. Even the weak dawn light filtering past her blinds made her groan in pain. She’d had a hangover only twice before, but there was no mistaking the symptoms. Fuzzy tongue, queasy stomach, pounding headache.
Keeping her eyes closed, she sat slowly up and swung her feet over the bed. The room spun a little, but her stomach didn’t protest too much, thank God. In fact, a glass of cold milk sounded like something she’d pay a million dollars for. Promising herself a reward of returning to bed in just a few minutes, she pushed to her feet and shuffled to the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the lights.
After the bathroom, she headed slowly to the fridge, hissing in pain like a vampire when the fridge light burned her retinas. She squeezed her eyes shut and managed to find the milk and get the door closed without having to brave the light again. She gulped down half a glass of milk, popped some ibuprofen and trudged back to her room.
She sank into her mattress with a sigh. “I should take off this dress,” she muttered to no one, but it seemed like a Herculean task. She pulled the covers over her head and slept.
The next time she woke up, the room was much brighter, but her headache was gone. Her body still ached, and her stomach felt hollow, but that was the worst of it. She was bone-dry, though, and when she saw the water on her bedside table, she sat up and gulped the rest of it down.
“God, I’m an idiot,” she moaned. She couldn’t remember how many martinis she’d had, but there’d been at least two before the show, and two was really her limit. She remembered the nice waitress and she remembered sitting with Gabe, and then... Then she’d obviously stumbled home and fallen into bed without even taking off her dress.
Looking down at herself, she winced. There were deep creases all over the pretty blue knit. She’d have to hand wash it and hope it recovered.
Veronica climbed from bed and struggled out of her dress and bra, then dug out yoga pants and a big T-shirt. This time, when she got to the bathroom, she turned on the light and regretted it immediately. Not because of her hangover, but because of what she saw in the mirror.
“Oh, holy mother of God,” she wheezed, staring wide-eyed at the hot mess that looked back at her. Her hair stood up in crazed tufts, as if she’d twisted her head into her pillow for half the night. Her skin was sallow and sickly looking, as befitted a woman with a hell of a hangover. But worst of all were her eyes, which were bloodshot and ringed with layers of purple and gray and black makeup that looked like a bruised rainbow.
Veronica dove for her bathroom drawer and frantically pulled out her makeup wipes. It took five minutes to get the eye makeup off, but the slight purplish tinge beneath her eyes wouldn’t budge. Maybe it was just exhaustion. Her skin felt invigorated, at least, though after all the scrubbing, she now looked as if she had pinkeye.
“Never again,” she promised herself. “No martinis next week.”
She was craving a hot breakfast, but no way was she leaving her house to grab anything. Even a hoodie and big sunglasses couldn’t cure her self-consciousness, so she ventured into her kitchen to see what she had. The inside of her fridge didn’t present the best options, but she did find cheese and some egg substitute. A bad omelet, then.
She set her finds on the counter, closed the fridge, then turned to flip the light switch, wincing instinctively at the shock of brightness.
But it was fine. She was fine. Because she’d been smart enough to get up and take ibuprofen hours before. This wasn’t so bad. Maybe she could handle a party lifestyle, after all.
She turned back to face the fridge, paused to feel her heart skip in her chest and then she screamed.
The white notebook paper stood out against the black door. Hand pressed to her mouth in horror, Veronica backed up until her ass hit the other counter. “No,” she whispered against her fingers. “No, no, no, no, no.”
#1—Let people see the real you.
“No!” she yelled at the paper.
Those bold black words were all it took for the whole evening to rush back at her. The way she’d flirted with Gabe, the way she’d told him she was flirting with him, the drunk, stumbling walk back to her apartment and then...
“Noooo,” she moaned, pressing her hand hard to her mouth as if she could somehow stop the words that had passed her lips the night before.
She’d told him her deepest secret. Confessed