He’s gorgeous.
Tanned olive skin hinting at Mediterranean heritage, wide brown eyes so dark they’re almost black, and thick messy black hair cut close on the sides and longer on the top. I felt it when he held me, but now seeing him, I realize he’s powerfully built, broad through the shoulders and chest. He’s wearing a sleeveless black Under Armour shirt which is stretched across his chest, leaving his arms bare, long and thick and bulging with muscle.
My gaze rakes over him, and then goes back to his eyes, and something inside me clenches. His expression is shuttered, but I can see through it. I can see worry and pain and doubt and strength and self-assurance. Such expressive brown eyes, even when he’s trying to keep from showing his feelings.
Or maybe I can just read him.
Fuck. I’m checking this guy out, and I just buried my mom yesterday. What the hell is wrong with me?
He clears his throat and swings his legs off the bed, scoots forward, and stands up, hopping a little as he grabs a cheap black drugstore cane from where it was propped against the bed. I remember flashes of him from last night—that cane, a limp. Something about a football injury?
“Want some coffee?” he asks.
“Maybe some water and aspirin first?”
He nods. “Sure. Stay put.” He turns away, but not before I notice his gaze flicking to my legs and then quickly away.
I realize then that the T-shirt I’m wearing has hiked up, giving him a nice view of my entire lower half from the waist down. At least I wore panties with the dress yesterday. I pull the sheet over my waist and stuff the pillows behind my back, lean against the wall and ignore the pounding in my head as I reluctantly try to summon memories of last night.
Nothing good comes to mind.
Ben returns with a bottle of water, a mug of coffee, two aspirins, and a toasted cinnamon raisin bagel slathered generously with cream cheese. He’s got his cane hooked over his arm so he can carry everything. I feel immediately guilty, letting him hobble around bringing me breakfast in bed.
Jesus. This is nuts. I’ve known the guy for like five seconds and he’s treating me better than anyone I’ve ever dated. Which, honestly, isn’t that hard, but it’s worrisome.
“You didn’t have to bring it to me—” I start.
He waves me off, handing me the pills first and then the bottle of water, then setting everything else down on the bedside table. “It’s fine. You’ve got to have the mother of all hangovers—” He cuts off abruptly. “I mean, a hell of a hangover.”
The shitty thing is, I really do feel that fragile, that even the word ‘mother’ has the power to make me choke up.
“God, Echo. I’m sorry.” He winces, rubbing at his forehead. “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Thank you.” I swallow the pills and force myself to drink the entire bottle of water slowly, sip by sip, until it’s gone.
He starts to turn away. “I…I’ll—let me know if you need anything. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need.”
The idea of being alone right now scares me. I’ll lose it if I have to be on my own. “Ben, wait.” I scoot over to the other side of the bed and then reach out for the coffee mug and the paper plate with the bagel. I pat the bed beside me. “Sit. It’s your room. And…I wouldn’t mind the company.”
He seems reluctant, oddly, but then lets out a breath and takes the spot on the bed beside me, lifting his injured leg onto the bed with obvious relief. He snags his phone from the dock and scrolls through his FB feed while I eat my bagel. It’s strangely comfortable, the silence between us. I’m not given to idle chatter, and neither is he, it seems.
When I’m done, and my stomach is less tumultuous—a little, at least—I set the plate aside and sip at the coffee, which is strong and lightly creamed, which is how I happen to like it.
I let out a sigh, knowing it’s time to bite the bullet. “So. My memory of last night is…hazy.” I can’t quite look at him. “But knowing myself and how I get when I drink as much as I did, I probably embarrassed myself. So…fill me in, would you?”
He clicks the top button of his phone, putting it to sleep, and sets it aside. His gaze goes to mine, serious and compassionate. “Nothing to be embarrassed about, Echo. I think…under the circumstances…”
I groan at the hesitancy in his voice. “Just tell me what I did.”
He shrugs. “You hopped in my cab as I was leaving the cemetery, and you had the driver take us to the nearest bar. Which, by the way, was one of the nastiest shithole dive bars I’ve ever been to. You must’ve had…oh man, like four or five pints and at least six shots in maybe an hour and a half at most.”
I thunk my head against the wall. “Jesus.”
“So, yeah. That hit you pretty quick. We left the bar and just drove around for a while. You ended up passing out in the cab, so I brought you back here.”
I close my eyes and try to remember. I have flashes of memory: the cab ride, hearing one of Mom’s favorite songs, seeing the outskirts of San Antonio through the window, wishing I could fall asleep and never wake up. Ben helping me walk, a strong arm around me, holding me up.
“I remember some of that.” I try again, and recall a memory of fighting with my dress, and calling Ben “Benji.” I remember him not liking it, but not fighting me on it. But then, I was probably pretty belligerent. “I remember calling you Benji, for some reason. And I also remember trying to get my dress off.”
The fact that I’m in nothing but his T-shirt worries me. What did I do? And what do I not remember doing? I’m scared to ask.
Ben’s lips quirk. “Yeah, you…I was getting you a drink. You demanded a drink after we got here, and I guess maybe I shouldn’t have given you anything else, but I did. So when I came back in with the whiskey, you were trying to unzip your dress and you were all like ‘fuck this dress, I’m done with this stupid dress.’”
“Anything else?” I ask, not daring to even look at him. “I didn’t…I mean…did we…?”
“No,” he answers immediately. “You were beyond wasted, and there’s no way in hell I’d ever take advantage like that. No fucking way.”
“So I took my dress off and passed out?”
He makes a face. “Not…quite.”
“Fuck.”