Page 42 of Into These Eyes
Chapter 17
Jamie
Light bleeds through my eyelids, but I don’t move. I get the feeling that’ll cause a great deal of pain. I can’t remember why, but I trust my instincts. Instead, I crack open my crusty eyes.
And immediately close them again. Clearly, I’m not awake at all because I’m having a vivid dream about Gavin Lake. I suppose it makes sense after the emotional visit with himyesterday, but why I’m dreaming about him asleep in my grandfather’s wing-back chair, I can’t comprehend.
Well, maybe a part of me does. The man I met yesterday wasn’t the ugly, violent monster I’ve always believed him to be. He was … what? Gentle and considerate, and definitely not ugly.
Ugh. That’s not what I should be thinking about. Frowning, I realise I must be awake to be thinking at all. Especially since my head’s throbbing in time with my heartbeat.
Prying my eyes open to mere slits, my pulse quickens, doubling the thumping pain in my head. He’s still there, his back propped into one corner of the chair, the side of his face resting against the wing. Opening my eyes a little wider, I stare at him. What’s he doing here? In mybedroom?
I remain motionless as my brain ticks over, slowly accepting the reality that he’s obviously been here all night.
The first thing I notice is that I’m not afraid of his presence, just curious as to why he’s here at all.
The second thing is how peaceful he looks with his facial muscles relaxed, one leg hanging over the chair’s arm, the other sticking straight out, a hand resting on his stomach.
Glancing down at myself, I discover I’m on top of my comforter, a throw rug draped over me, and best of all, I’m still in my dress.
Dress? Why am I wearing a—
Oh,shit. I close my eyes and let out a soft groan as I remember heading out to the club. Though I can’t remember what any of that has to do with Gavin Lake’s presence in my home.
When I shift my gaze to him again, he’s watching me with hooded eyes as tired as mine feel. I try to sit up, and instantly crash back to my pillow, my head about to explode. Closing my eyes, I take long, deep breaths while I wait for the pain to subside.
After a moment, something cool and damp touches my forehead. My eyes fly open and meet his. He’s standing over me, his face full of concern as he presses a washcloth to my brow.
“I hope I didn’t scare you,” he says, his voice gravelly with sleep, yet so gentle.
Swallowing, trying to get my thick, dry tongue to work, I croak out, “What … why are you here?”
He gives me a lopsided grin as he turns the washcloth over, letting the cooler side rest on my skin. “You called me last night. Well, you got the bartender to.”
“Oh, God. I did?” I whimper.
“Yeah. Good decision by the way.”
“I don’t remember any of that.”
“I think that was your plan.”
I swallow again and close my eyes, trying to block out reality. The reality of what I did last night and the reality of why I did it.
“How’re you feeling?” he asks, still using that gentle tone. For which my pounding head is eternally grateful.
“Like someone filled my mouth with kitty litter, waited until it absorbed every molecule of moisture, then bludgeoned me over the head.”
He chuckles lightly. “That’s one way to put it.”
My eyes snap open. I want to see that smile. Jesus. How can he look so good after sleeping in a chair all night?
“I have your Panadol, but ibuprofen might be better for your headache if you have any.”
“Kitchen cupboard above the microwave,” I mumble.
When he leaves the room, I try to sit up, but my head protests so much, I ease back onto the pillow again. Thank God I don’t need to pee, because I have no idea how I’d make it to the bathroom.
