Bea clutches the side of her head, eyes shut. “Sorry. Apparently it runs in the family. You scared Jamie and Christopher last night.”
I ease upright on the chair, experiencing a sudden swell of nausea. “What?”
“They couldn’t find you after everyone left. They were scouring the apartment for you.”
Guilt twinges through me like a plucked string. I want to ask Bea what she’s talking about, but I’ve got a bad feeling about how she’s going to answer me. Before I hear whatever drunken nonsense I pulled last night, I need coffee.
Pushing off the chair, I slip into the kitchen, fumble for a mug, drag the carafe off the warming plate, and pour a hot, sloshing cup of desperately needed caffeine.
“Should you be doing that?” Bea asks.
“Drinking coffee?” I ask, poised to savor that glorious, piping-hot first sip. “Fuck, yes.”
“Using your arm,” she says. “Not wearing the sling.”
The coffee I’ve just swallowed flies down my windpipe. I smack my chest.
“You okay?” Bea asks.
I nod, lifting a hand. “Fine,” I croak.
She frowns at me and my lifted arm. The one I’ve been faithfully tucking into a sling for the past two weeks, even though my shoulder’s fully recovered from the run-in with Christopher.
I drop my arm.
“I had it seen yesterday,” I lie off the cuff, loathing myself for lying again, but not knowing what else to do.
Her frown deepens. “Oh?”
I set down my coffee and kill two birds with one stone, turning toward the cabinet with the ibuprofen to fish some out and avoid my sister’s eyes. “Yeah, I’m okay to take it out of the sling now.”
“Huh. I figured shoulder injuries would need longer than that to heal. That seems pretty fast.”
“I didn’t break it right before I came home. It was a little while before I left.”
That feels good, sharing some truth.
Bea makes an understanding noise. “Of course. I didn’t consider that you’ve been healing for a while.”
“Plus,” I add, “you know how they’re always changing what they recommend, how soon you start using it, what you can and can’t do.” I make a derisive noise in the back of my throat. “Doctors.”
Of course, that’s when I remember her boyfriend’s a pediatrician. “I mean, besides—”
“Chill your cheeky briefs,” she says, pushing off the couch, mug in hand. “I’m not offended.”
I peer down, and lo and behold, I am indeed in my cheeky briefs. “I coulda sworn I put on pants.”
Her hand lands gently on my messy bun, which she tweaks affectionately. “I think you might still be a little drunk.”
“It’s possible.” Cautiously, I try for another sip of coffee. “I inherited Mom’s knack for languages but not her tolerance for whiskey.”
“Only Jules inherited Mom’s tolerance for whiskey, which is freakish and unfair.” Bea tops off her mug and leans against the counter beside me. “So. How much do you remember after you passed out in the closet?”
Oh boy. Here we go. “Nothing. Why? Did I reveal myself from my hiding spot in some gloating and spectacularly inebriated fashion?”
A little nervous laugh trickles out of her. She takes a gulp of coffee. Then another. “Not exactly.”
Unease slithers down my spine. “What happened?”
“It’s not a big deal.” Bea sets her mug in the sink, the dregs swirling around the bottom.
“That’s exactly what you say when something is a big deal.”
“Christopherfoundyouandputyoutobedthat’sit.”
I blink at her. “I . . . He . . . What?”
She walks backward, which is not a wise idea for Bea—she’s the only one in the family more accident-prone than me. “Christopher. He found you. Put you to bed.” She dusts off her hands. “No big. That’s it.”
Hazy, liquor-soaked memories saturate my brain and float to the surface. I remember now, my head flopping onto a shoulder, my cheek pressing into a solid chest that radiated heat, hard and warm as a sunbaked boulder.
I remember breathing in that familiar scent, spicy woodsmoke, soft as a whisper on his clothes and skin.
Oh God. His skin. I buried my face in it. I wrapped my arm around him. I touched him.
“Are you okay?” Bea asks.
I scrub my face. “Brilliant. Fabulous.”
“You’re upset.”
“Christopher carried my drunk ass to bed like a damsel in distress after he found me spooning a whiskey bottle in a closet, yes, I’m upset!”