Page 8 of His Curvy Obsession

“Sorry,” Rebecca mumbles, putting a hand on my thigh to push away from me.

She starts to sit back up and retreat to her side of the back seat. I don’t know what the hell comes over me, but I put an armaround her, holding her against my chest. I bring my other hand to her chin, tipping her face up at mine.

Her eyes look unfocused and lost, and her cheeks are flushed.

“You did a foolish thing tonight,” I say to her. “Mixing your medication with alcohol.”

“It was an accident.”

“I know,” I say. “But you could have been hurt. I don’t like that.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“You’re right,” I agree. “It won’t. I won’t allow it.”

She looks confused, like she doesn’t quite know what I’m saying. I don’t know what I’m saying either. Even though I didn’t have a drop to drink tonight and never do, I feel a little intoxicated myself. Intoxicated by what? By her?Why?

“Why did you even talk to a man like that?” I ask her.

“A man like who?”

“Larry Welch,” I say.

She frowns.

“I don’t know,” she says. “We were just…talking. He was nice. I gave him my phone number and we were planning to go out next weekend. It’s not like I knew that he would follow me upstairs. I had no idea that he’d turn out to be such a creep.”

“But why did you give him your number?” I press. “Why did you agree to go out with him next weekend?”

She looks completely confused now.

“I don’t understand,” she says. “What do you mean? Are you asking why I…why I date?”

I think about this and realize that I don’t really know what the hell I’m asking.

Ordinarily I’m so careful with words, calculating what I say before I say it. But tonight it’s like my mind is just as scrambled as hers.

“Forget it,” I say, shaking my head.

She’s already forgotten, though. Slurring her words with the memory of a goldfish, she’s a hazard to her own safety tonight. Now she’s singing softly to herself, fiddling with the hem of her dress, as if she doesn’t realize I’m still here.

By the time we make it to my house a few minutes later, she’s passed out, completely limp in my arms.

Knowing that what I’m doing violates all kinds of employee guidelines and crosses a line that can’t be uncrossed, I carry her upstairs, passing several guest rooms and heading to the master bedroom instead.

I know I won’t be able to sleep tonight, anyway. I need to know that she’s safe.

For some damn reason, I need to see to her safetypersonally, watching over her tonight instead of calling someone to help.

Sacrificing my sleep to care for her. It makes no sense. But that’s exactly what I do.

6

Rebecca

Silk sheets.Who the hell owns silk sheets?

Not me, that’s for sure. I get paid reasonably well at Stone Enterprises, but not enough to keep me in five hundred dollar bedding. I wish.

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