The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(24)

“Oh my God.”

I can’t say I’m sorry he didn’t take me home—me showing up on my father’s doorstep completely intoxicated would have destroyed him. He’s never seen me this way, has never seen me as anything other than his perfect little girl. I don’t know what he would’ve done or how he would’ve reacted, but I know he would not have been happy to have some strange guy dropping me off in the middle of the night.

“How did you sleep?” said strange guy asks, fiddling with the handle of the mug, which says, Day drinking from a mug to keep things professional.

Oh the irony.

Despite my throbbing head, the quote makes me smile. I lift a hand, fingering my temple, massaging the tender flesh there, wincing.

“I slept great, thank you. Like the dead.”

“Good. I didn’t quite know where to put you.”

“How did I get in here?”

“I carried you.”

Well this just gets better and better with every passing moment, doesn’t it?

My eyes fly to his arms—toned and taut, not overly bulky. Perfect. He’s not a meathead, but he’s in great shape, and I blush at the smooth tanned skin of his upper arms. His biceps.

Seriously, they are some of the most beautiful arms I’ve seen in my entire life, though maybe I’m still drunk from last night.

I have observed a lot of arms from visiting my dad, have admired a lot of bare torsos. I’ve appreciated the sight of guys traipsing around in nothing but thin, polyester wrestling singlets, and those leave nothing to the imagination.

The guy clears his throat when he catches me eyeing him, lifting the white mug to his lips and taking another sip, breaking the eye contact.

Man, he is so cute.

A blush that matches mine spreads across his cheeks.

He clears his throat again, straightening to his full height. He’s tall, probably around six one, just reaching the top of the doorframe.

“Um, I hate to bother you, but do you happen to have any ibuprofen I can take? My head is killing me.” I groan out loud this time, wanting to burrow back under his covers.

“Sure, in the bathroom.” He offers me a pleasant smile just as my eyes land on the small gray garbage can next to the bed. Thank God I didn’t have to barf in it or this morning would have gone from bad to worse.

“I didn’t…I didn’t, uh, throw up in your car last night, did I?”

I might have been completely blitzed out of my mind, but I do vaguely remember a conversation where he specifically asked me not to puke in his car. I have to wonder now if I did.

His head gives a lazy shake as he laughs. “No, but I think it was close. I seriously thought you were going to toss your cookies.”

“I’m…really glad I didn’t.”

Talk about horrifying.

Not to mention, I had Mexican food last night—me throwing up in his vehicle would have been a nightmare for both of us.

Library Guy stays put, still in the doorway, watching me lie on his bed like a beached porpoise. I roll forward, intent on slowly dragging my feet over the side of his mattress, which is easier said than done when you’re hung-over.

“Please don’t watch,” I murmur, only half joking.

He moves toward me a few inches, unsure. “Do you want a hand getting up?”

“No! No, I’m good. I got this.” Deep cleansing breath in, deep cleansing breath out.

“Take your time, Donnelly, or you’ll be yacking it on my carpet.”

Dear Lord, did he just call me by my last name? I suppose it makes sense given that he knows who my dad is, but still, kind of weird.

“If you don’t mind, I would love to at least use your bathroom, get that headache medicine—my head is pounding.”

“I can get you some water, too. You need to hydrate.”

“Do you happen to have any choco—”

“Chocolate milk? No, but you did ask for it last night.” He chuckles again, this time into his coffee mug.

“Please, can we not talk about what I said last night? I don’t want to know—I don’t know if I’m emotionally equipped to handle it.” I groan when my feet hit the carpet; they’re bare, shoes and socks neatly placed by the door.

I gaze up into his expectant face…his tan, handsome face.

I stumble, grabbing for a nearby dresser, righting myself so I can stand. It’s not easy; everything aches, and also I’m dying.

I’ve never wanted to crawl back under the covers and hide so much in my entire freaking life. My face, cheeks, and chest are a blazing inferno of shame.

Ugh. Shoot me now.

Seriously, put me out of my misery.

“Thank you.” I hesitate, wondering how to broach the next subject, pointing to the rumpled sheets on the bed. “Did we, uh…”

“No, of course not.” He sips from his mug. “I slept on the couch.”

“Oh thank God.”

His brows shoot into his forehead, and I realize that statement sounded worse out loud than it did in my head—my pounding, throbbing, spinning head.

I wave it off. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant…I can’t remember anything from last night and I woke up in your bed and I have no idea how I got here and I’m just really…” Deep breath, Anabelle. “Thank you for being a decent human.”