Good for You: A Novel (43)

Why was he being like this? “You don’t need to be nice to me just because I’m Luke’s sister,” she blurted.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

“I know you are, but what am I?” said Aly, and Wyatt laughed.

“You’re something else, Aly Jackson,” he said.

She hoped he couldn’t feel the goose bumps on her skin. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

When they reached the house, she slid out of his grip and sat down on the stairs. Wow—she was really quite intoxicated. Maybe she could just stay here a while, until this icky feeling wore off.

“Come on. You’re going to get sunburned if you sit out here. Alcohol makes it even easier to fry,” said Wyatt.

“I can’t,” she mumbled. Her legs felt wooden, and her head was an anvil on her shoulders.

“Then I can,” he said, and scooped her up into his arms like she was no heavier than a rag doll. “I think it’s time for you to have some ibuprofen and take a nice, long nap.”

“I don’t nap, Wyatt,” she said as he carried her through the door back inside. He didn’t stop at the sofa, though; he started right up the stairs toward her room. “It’s not possible for me.”

“I think this might be an exception,” he said, striding down the hallway with her.

Oh, she thought as he stopped in front of her bedroom. Was he going to make a move? Under normal circumstances, she’d give him hell, especially after his whole Jekyll-and-Hyde routine the other day. But now? Aly didn’t hate this idea. Not at all.

“I like your face like that,” she murmured, barely resisting the urge to run her hand along his stubble.

“I like your face like that, too,” he said, somehow managing to turn her doorknob without letting go of her.

Did he? This was promising.

“But I like it even better when you’re fully cognizant,” he added as he set her down on the bed.

Cognizant? She knew that word. Didn’t she? Oh, well. “Wyatt, lie down with me,” she said as she sank into the downy pillow top. “I’ve already seen half of you naked.” She was tired, so very tired, but she wasn’t ready to abandon her quest yet. “Or just . . . you know. Touch me.”

“I wish I could,” he said so quietly that she could barely hear him. “I can’t, Aly. Not if we’re going to be sharing a home.”

But it was one more conversation Aly wouldn’t remember. Nor would she recall Wyatt tenderly tucking her in, drawing the curtains, and waiting until she was snoring softly to close the door behind him.





TWENTY-ONE


“Argh,” groaned Aly. Her head was pounding. Where was she? And what time was it?

Oh. Fragments of the day before came back to her as she sat up and squinted in the bright morning light. She’d slept right through the afternoon and all the way through the night, which was probably the only reason she was semifunctional.

What had happened before she’d fallen asleep? As she peered at her puffy eyes and tangled hair in the bathroom mirror, she was forced to admit that she could only remember so much. There was the call with James; then Wyatt, being so nice to her; and their little jaunt to the beach; then him carrying her into the house . . .

Everything after that had vanished.

Her pulse quickened as she splashed water on her skin. Even if nothing were wrong with her—and obviously, there was—she’d made it worse by pumping toxins directly into her system. Maybe it was time to see a neurologist or a psychologist. Probably both.

She changed out of yesterday’s clothes, which smelled of booze and just a hint of beach, and pulled on a clean shirt and pair of shorts. When she got downstairs, she found Wyatt sitting cross-legged on the counter.

“Morning,” he said, lifting his mug to greet her. This was an unusual turn of events—him, practically perky, while she felt like a human rainstorm. “How are you feeling? Back on the wagon today, I assume?”

She blushed. “If by ‘on the wagon’ you mean never drinking again, then yes. Um . . . I don’t remember going to bed last night.” It was so mortifying to admit it, but she had to, in case she’d done something she needed to know about.

“You mean yesterday afternoon,” he said with a wry smile.

“Uh, yeah. Did I do anything . . . you know. Stupid?”

Wyatt looked away, just for a moment, and her stomach sank. What had she done? “You honestly don’t remember? I should’ve cut you off sooner.”

“I think something might be wrong with me,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed myself.”

He met her eyes. “You didn’t embarrass anyone. And nothing’s wrong with you.”

She shook her head. “Obviously that’s not true. First, I completely block out an argument with my coworkers. Now this?” She did not volunteer that this had happened to her when she was younger because—well, this was different.

He set his mug down and folded his arms over his chest. “Let’s be clear—these are two separate things. You drank enough to black out, which is a pretty common phenomenon, however unpleasant. The situation with your coworkers is completely unrelated.”

“How so?”