The Billionaire and the Virgin (Billionaires and Bridesmaids #1)(21)

By the time they got back to the lobby of the Seaturtle Cay Resort, they were both exhausted. Marjorie had fallen asleep and so Rob carried her inside. Her body was long but her form was light, and it was no trouble to haul her up the steps. First stop: the front desk, to get a key for Marjorie’s room. He knew the room number, but his date was asleep. If he woke her up to get the card, he suspected the vomiting would start again, and neither of them wanted that. Right now, she was mostly at peace, her nose pressed against his neck, her breathing soft and exhausted.

So, front desk.

Of course, as soon as they got into the hotel, fate stepped in and shat on his plans. Chitchatting at the front with the desk attendant was the obnoxious redhead she’d been partying with a few nights ago. No doubt she was part of the bridal party, and would run straight to Logan if she saw Rob hauling around an unconscious and thoroughly drunk Marjorie.

All right, change of plans. They’d go to his room. Rob maneuvered down the opposite hall, away from the front desk, and headed for the elevators. He held his breath until the damn thing opened, and then hammered the buttons as soon as he stepped inside. Close, close, damn it.

For once, luck was on his side. The doors closed without incident and the elevator chugged up to his floor. He juggled the sleeping Marjorie while he swiped his key card across the pad, and then headed into his suite.

Someone had come in and cleaned while he was gone. That was good; if she woke up surrounded in candy bar wrappers and empty beer bottles, she’d probably panic. Instead, the suite was perfection once more. The bed was freshly made, his dirty clothes no longer littering the floor. All the food wrappers that had covered his desk were gone, and his laptop was closed.

He headed over to the bed and gently laid her on top of the blankets on one side, then tugged them out from under her dead weight and covered her with them. Her dress collar was off to one side, and he was pretty sure her entire boob was exposed, but she was sleeping and sloppy drunk and it wasn’t a turn-on in the slightest. He covered her with the blankets, tucking them tight around her, and when she mumbled and turned on her side, he went and grabbed the ice bucket and put it next to the bed just in case.

Then, pulling an extra blanket out of the closet, he headed over to the sofa in the main room of his suite and stripped out of his now-vomited-on clothing.

What a f*cking disaster tonight had been. Nights like this were a good reminder of why he didn’t date.

***

Marjorie was dying.

That was the only possible explanation for how awful she felt. Death. Possibly hers, though her mouth tasted like something had crawled in there and died as well. She licked her dry lips, and immediately her stomach protested.

Oh. Oh, no.

She bolted up from the bed and ran for the closest door, barely making it before her stomach heaved up its contents. She puked for what felt like forever, crouching against the side of the toilet bowl, and whimpered when nothing else came up. God, this was awful. So awful. Her head felt like it had split open, and her entire body ached. Everything was vague and fuzzy. Was she sick? What was wrong with her?

The toilet felt nice against her cheek, though. She rested her face against the side of it for a moment longer, and then peered at the black lumps of clothing tossed on the floor that she’d just now noticed.

Men’s shoes. A belt. Slacks. A jacket.

Oh . . .

Oh dear.

Eyes wide with horror, Marjorie looked around at the bathroom. This . . . wasn’t hers. Her room was really nice, but this bathroom was bigger than hers, and someone had used the deluxe waterfall shower in the past few hours, and had discarded towels on the tile, something she never did.

Where was she?

Stumbling to her feet, Marjorie gazed at the bathroom counter. Shaving implements. Shaving?! She caught a look at herself in the mirror and moaned in horror. Her eye makeup was now under her eyes instead of above them, her hair was a disaster, and her face was a sickly shade. Her neckline had shifted, and one of her breasts was falling out of her dress, the other about to join it. Quickly, she fixed things. There were dried streaks around the corners of her mouth, and she hurriedly washed her face and smoothed her hair.

Then she threw up again, because her stomach hated all that moving.

As she clung to the toilet once more, she tried to recall exactly what had happened last night. It was a blur. She remembered going out with Rob. Sort of. And she remembered drinking a lot of wine to try to seem worldly to him. And she vaguely remembered a dance floor.

And puking. Lots and lots of puking.

Okay. Okay. She breathed deep to settle her stomach and tried to calm her racing mind. She’d clearly gotten drunk. And now she was back at his place. There had to be a logical reason for that. Did she sleep with him, then? Was she no longer a virgin? Good lord, had she had sex and couldn’t even remember it?

Her hand went under her skirt. Her panties were still there, in place. The crotch wasn’t even damp. Even her shoes were still on. All right. Probably no sex, then. She’d probably been too sick. The panic in her chest lessened and she spent a few more minutes with the toilet before her stomach felt comfortable enough for her to stand again.

She had to get back to her room. Pronto.

Marjorie tiptoed out of the bathroom and rubbed her eyes, looking around at the suite. It was luxurious, the size of the room probably bigger than her apartment at home. Thick carpet muffled her footsteps and she made the bed as best as she could, grabbed the ice bucket in case she got sick again, and then headed into the main living area of the suite.