Planting her hands on the bathroom counter, she hoisted herself up and had a good long look in the mirror. Just take me now, Lord. Please.
At the end of the long vanity was a medicine cabinet, and she lurched toward it. Much to her considerable relief, she hit pay dirt. Obviously, Matt often had female visitors, as there was a toothbrush. And toothpaste. And tampons, facial moisturizer, shampoo, conditioner, aspirin. And a bottle of Maalox? Priceless.
Rebecca took the toothbrush and toothpaste, the aspirin and Maalox. When she was done, she dragged her fingers through her hair, determined she was going to have to find her bag with the comb and little makeup kit before she could even begin to think how to get herself out of this mess. Very cautiously, she stepped into the bedroom again, made her way to the window, drew the drapes aside, and instantly staggered back, blinded by the sun. Damn, what time was it?
“Definitely time for you to go, you little four-year idiot,” she muttered hoarsely. “You could be the poster child for why people shouldn’t drink. Ah, but you did, and then you just had to go there, didn’t you?” she angrily chastised herself as she turned away from the window and went in search of her boots. “Why stop there? Why not just go ahead and tell him everything? Like how you hoard Haagen-Dazs ice cream, and how you’ve never had a job, and Bud never ever, not once, gave you an orgasm all by himself.”
She found her blouse at the end of the bed. How thoughtful. No panties, she noticed as she snatched up her blouse and struggled into it. And no boots. It would be hard to escape without boots.
She harkened back to her bazillion books that would advise her how to cope with this. “How about Rule Five?” she asked herself. “When mistakes happen, step out of the batter’s box, regroup, and then step right up to the plate again. There you go, Rebecca, just step back—like all the way to China. And by the way, your boots are obviously not in this room.”
She made for the door, turning the handle very slowly and cautiously so as not to wake anyone she did not want to see ever again in her lifetime, then quickly pulled the door open—and shrieked bloody murder.
“Jesus!” Matt yelped, as Rebecca stumbled back, slapping her hand over her pounding heart. She was having a heart attack. It served her right!
Matt gripped the doorjamb and stood there, muscular arms, bare chest tapering to a trim waist, pajama pants that rode low on his hips. His feet were bare and his thick hair looked slept in, and that being said, he looked about as fine as any man Rebecca had ever seen. Better. Man, this guy was hot.
“I thought I heard voices,” he said apologetically, looking past her into the room.
“No one but us chickens,” she muttered, self-consciously pushing her hair behind her ears. In that instant, she realized that if she didn’t get out of that room right that very minute, she’d explode, and moved so quickly that he sort of jumped as she slipped past him and hurried down the hall, past two doors, one closed, one open (through which she could see a huge platform bed, the sheets all messed up, which made her heart flutter wildly), and into the big, sterile expanse of chrome and black he liked to call home. And there she stood, staring at the couch and trying to gather what was left of her obliterated wits.
She heard his sigh then, and wincing, risked a glance over her shoulder. Matt had followed her; he was leaning against the bar on one arm, his legs crossed at the ankles as he watched her. He pushed a hand through his hair and made it stand up even more. “I assume that as you are hurtling through the house like a rocket that you’re going to live after all. You want some coffee?”
Dizzy. She was so dizzy. Maybe because she wasn’t breathing. “Yes,” she said in a whoosh of breath.
Matt walked into a kitchen that was separated from the room by a long granite bar, on top of which sat her bag. Her boots were just beneath it, tucked neatly side by side against the bar. She quickly made her way over and looked around for her panties. Unfortunately, those puppies were still MIA.
Matt glanced up as he poured a cup of coffee and slid it across the bar to her. “So . . . are you all right?”
She nodded.
“Need anything?”
She shook her head.
“Hungry?”
“Ah, no,” she said, holding a hand up to protest even the mention of food. Matt smiled. “Don’t,” she warned him, finding her voice at last. “I’m mortified enough as it is. In case you didn’t notice, I’m not much of a drinker.”
“Really?” He poured himself a cup of joe. “You seemed to be doing a pretty good job of it last night.”
Rebecca winced, took a sip of coffee, immediately determined coffee was not a good idea and carefully pushed the cup away so she wouldn’t have to smell it. Matt watched her curiously; she put her fingers to her temples and rubbed them. “Matt . . . I’m . . . really sorry. I’m really very . . . sorry.”