Catch My Breath (8 page)

Working fast, I pulled up his shirt, scratching my nails down his chest. His muscles twitched and contracted under my touch. He brushed my hair back, cupped my jaw and pulled his mouth away.

“Don’t,” he said rather unconvincingly.

“I want to.”

His quiet moan drove me wild. My hand disappeared into the thick, dark red softness of his hair.

“No, Lia.” His eyes hardened in a determined stare.

He was rejecting me? Everything spun wildly. I broke out into a cold sweat as my vision tripled and stomach churned. Seconds later it rolled again as nausea spread through my body.
No, no, no
.

CHAPTER SIX

I could count on one hand how many times I’d been sick from drinking too much. This was going down as the most mortifying one in history. My entire body lurched as all the minty martinis flew out into the toilet. At least I had enough presence of mind to flush it immediately.

Disgusted with myself, I rested my head on my arm to quiet the pounding.

This is attractive. I bet he loves having drunk girls on their knees in front of the toilet
.

Someone gathered my hair into a low ponytail.

Oh my God. Please don't let me puke with him kneeling beside me.

Too late. Another horrific wave of nausea overtook my body. Alastair knelt quietly beside me, stroking my back. I prayed to the gods of porcelain thrones to keep his clothes free from any splashback. When it seemed I’d completely emptied my stomach, I slumped against the wall and whimpered.

"Don't move. I'll be right back," he said.

Where else could I possibly go? I cradled my head in my hands. What a disaster. A few minutes later Alastair walked back in carrying a toothbrush, a washcloth and the bottle of water.

"Come here." He knelt next to me and pressed the washcloth to my face. "I've run it under cold water. Sorry if it's a bit chilly."

The cool cotton felt good against my flaming skin. Tears flowed down my cheeks in thick streams.

"No tears, love. You've nothing to be ashamed of."

I looked at him through watery eyes. I was so embarrassed. I must look like such an asshole to him.

"Drink this." He handed me the water.

"Thank you."

Alastair tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "You're welcome. I'll let you finish up in here. Come find me when you're done, alright?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“This.”

Tilting my chin up, he started to say something then stopped. We stared at one another for a couple minutes.

“I’ll be in the bedroom down the hall. Take your time.”

Once he was gone, I stood up and brushed my teeth quickly, then splashed more cold water on my face. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and grimaced.

I walked cautiously into the hall. A nasty headache pounded between my ears. All I wanted to do was lie down. There was light spilling from a nearby room. I staggered toward it, willing the rumbling in my stomach to settle down.

My vision doubled and I had to reach for the doorframe. He was at my side immediately, helping me to the bed. A t-shirt and flannel boxer shorts were folded on the pillow. I wasted no time changing into them. Yanking the dress over my head, I stood with it tangled around my arms. Some of the embellished sequins caught on my lace undergarments.

"Here. Let me help you.” Alastair gingerly loosened the sequins from the lace. As valiant as he was, his fingers did brush against my bra a couple times. One of the sequins was stuck on the lace edge, right at the swell of my breast. I held my breath as he moved deftly to get it off.

“No touching, Holden,” I breathed. He stared hungrily at me and tossed my dress to the side.

“You’re not making it very easy.”

He grabbed the t-shirt and pulled it over my head. Holding out the boxers so I could step into them, he inadvertently brushed my thigh and muttered something incoherently.

"Come. Lie down."

I crawled on the bed and snuggled into the pillows. All I needed was a warm body close by. "Lie down next to me. Please."

Alastair squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed hard. “You need to rest. I’m going to call Darren.”

“No. Stay with me.”

He ran both hands through his hair and looked at the ceiling.

"Please?”

Looking positively torn, his brows knit together in concentration as he climbed on the bed. I moved closer and ran my hand down his chest. He flinched.

“Lia, don’t.”

He took my hand and curled it under my chin, then draped his arm around my waist. I felt so safe, so secure. This was what I craved. I closed my eyes and passed out cold.

* * *

Everything was fuzzy and dim. I peered out from the blankets and tried to make sense of the shadows and shapes on the wall. It wasn’t my bedroom, that’s for sure. Ah, I was in Darren’s townhouse. Bits and pieces of the previous day started creeping back. The train. The cocktail party. The martinis.
Oh shit.

These sheets smelled so damn good.
Like Alastair.
My eyes flew open. The room zigged and zagged when I sat up. This wasn’t Darren’s townhouse. I clutched the fluffy comforter, waiting for my eyes to focus. The bed was empty, so that was a good sign. I looked down, relieved to see I was fully dressed, although the t-shirt was a little too big and I knew for a fact I didn’t own any green plaid boxers. Glowing red digital numbers confidently told me it was nine in the morning. A very weird feeling settled in my bones.

This wasn’t the same room I’d fallen asleep in last night. Panic snaked its way through my veins, trying to derail my attempt at a logical thought process. I stood in the middle of this very well decorated bedroom. It was immaculate, almost too perfect, like a model home used for an open house. What happened to the cozy cottage?

I peeked into hallway. It was dark, except for a sliver of light coming out from beneath a door. I padded down and leaned my ear against it to see if anybody was inside. Soft music was the only thing I heard at first; then, the subtle tapping sounds of fingers hitting a keyboard.

Knocking on the door, I turned the knob. Alastair looked up from a desk in surprise.

"Good morning. How are you feeling?"

"I don't know. Fine, I guess. My head hurts."

Alastair closed his laptop and folded his hands on the desk. He motioned for me to sit in the oversized gray chair I was leaning against.

"Do you remember much of what happened last night?"

“Some of it. Where am I?” I felt stupid asking it out loud, but what else could I do.

“My house.”

“So, this isn’t that cottage you took me to?”

“No. After you passed out I called Darren. He and Stephanie drove out to get you.” He cleared his throat and continued. “Needless to say, there was a rather heated discussion about your flying home this morning. Stephanie wasn’t too pleased about my offer to let you sleep here and then get you home later in the afternoon. She’s stubborn, that one.”

“Can you blame her? No offense, but you’re practically a stranger and now I’m all alone in a foreign country with you. How the hell did you convince her?”

“With a little help from Darren.”

“He must have likened you to the Pope or something. She would never agree to this unless she was one-hundred-fifty-percent certain—”

“It’s not for you to worry about. Everything is taken care of.”

“You like to interrupt me a lot.” I furrowed my brow, tapping my fingers on the chair.

“I do? Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.”

I shrugged, waving my hand in the air to dismiss the notion. I should be more upset with the whole situation, but as crazy and random as all this was, everything still felt…right. I got up and strolled around his home office. The heavy, dark lines of the furniture contrasted greatly with the light walls and cream window treatments. Everything was perfectly in its place.
He’s a neat freak,
I grinned. I could certainly appreciate someone who liked to have things organized. The room was so smart it wore its windows like wire-rimmed glasses at the tip of its nose.

“How fancy," I said, pointing at his framed diploma hanging on the wall. "Oxford University." I scrutinized it. “What does the ‘R’ stand for?”

“Reid.” He wrinkled his nose.

“Alastair Reid Holden? I like it.”

His lips curved. “Thanks.”

"My being here hasn't interfered with your plans for today has it?"

“No.”

“No rugby thing this weekend?”

“No,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Maybe next.”

A wave of nervousness washed over me. The embarrassment from last night started creeping in.
Did I really jump on his lap and kiss him like that?

“You are far too deep in thought,” he observed. “Would you like some breakfast? I don't know about you, but the morning after a night of serious drinking always calls for a cheesy omelet with toast. At least for me it does."

My stomach growled on cue. It never turned down food. Alastair stood up and headed toward the kitchen.

"It's settled then. Follow me.”

He prepared two very cheesy omelets for us to eat. I waited patiently at the table, sipping tea while he laid out the plates, silverware, toast and butter. Everything smelled divine. I ate enthusiastically, savoring each bite.

“What?” I arched an eyebrow.

"I'm rather enjoying watching you eat."

“Are you?” I brought the fork to my mouth. So help me, his entire body just trembled. Or was he just shifting in his chair? Either way, his subtle movements drove me crazy. “How’s yours?”

Without missing a beat, he flashed a broad smile and ate a forkful of cheesy eggs. If there has ever been a more distracting mouth on the planet, please show it to me because damn, he made eating an omelet look illegal. “It’s okay.”

Inexplicably, his expression hardened and he paled slightly. He was quiet for several seconds. Our flirty little eating game was apparently over. We finished our breakfast in silence.

I helped clear the table and leaned against the doorframe in the kitchen as Alastair loaded the dishwasher. He was even mind-numbingly gorgeous being domestic; hair all disheveled, dark blue pajamas bottoms hanging perfectly at his hips, a long sleeved cotton shirt clinging to his toned torso.

"I took the liberty of placing all your toiletries in the bathroom for whenever you'd like to shower. There are towels as well." He put the last plate in the dishwasher. "I have some work to finish, so the house is yours."

As he passed by, he reached out and squeezed my waist gently, making me jump.

"Someone's ticklish," he grinned, walking down the hallway.

I took a second to recover, then scurried off to take a shower. Alastair wasn’t kidding about leaving my things in the bathroom. Neatly lined up on the counter were my shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, razor, shaving cream, pretty much my entire supply of beauty products. His bathroom was stunning. I stared enviously at the large, egg shaped tub wondering if he ever used it … 
and who with
.

The shower alone was the size of a walk-in closet. Wrapped in limestone tile, it had a rain head, a hand spray and multiple wall sprays. There was even a bench that, I would imagine, comes in handy for shower shenanigans.

Stop thinking about him like that
.

After taking a leisurely, hot shower, I packed the rest of my belongings. I could still catch a late afternoon flight back to Orlando if we left for the airport in the next hour or so. Once I finished dressing, I went back to his office. Alastair was still typing away.

"What are you listening to?"

"John Field. He's an Irish pianist and composer. Do you like it?"

"I like classical music. It's very soothing."

Alastair nodded with approval. "I couldn't agree more."

Watching him work in such a casual atmosphere intrigued me. Dressed in his pajamas, he sat with perfect posture. His head tilted slightly to the right as he typed out a few quick lines. Intelligence and professionalism reflected in his eyes and serious expression. All that was missing was a three-piece suit. The visual gave me goose bumps.

"I'm not bothering you, am I?"

"Not at all. Just finishing up an email.” He closed the laptop. "You seem to be much better."

"I am, thank you. Not to inflate your ego or anything, but that omelet had something to do with it."

His throaty laugh filled the room. "Consider my ego fully inflated."

A cluster of framed photos hanging by the window caught my attention. I walked over to get a closer look. Some of them were very old, others were more recent. One in particular caught my eye. A little boy, no older than five or six, was throwing a handful of leaves over his head. He was sitting on the grass alone, looking up as the leaves fluttered around him. It was a joyful photo, except for the lack of any happiness on his face. Especially in his beautiful eyes. They were listless and sad.

"Is this you?"

“Yes,” he answered tightly, walking towards me.

The pain behind his eyes was immense. He stared at the photo of his younger self, clenching and unclenching his fists. His despair filled me with sadness. I wanted to see him smile.

“You used to be cute, Holden. What happened?”

Mischief replaced the pain in his eyes a split second before he grabbed at my waist and squeezed. I yelped like a scared puppy and tried to break free. He mistook my genuine reaction of panic for carefree joy and tickled me faster. I tried like hell to stop him, but the expression on his face halted me in my protests. His shielded eyes were free. They were gleaming and happy and full of life. Alastair’s radiant smile lit up the entire room. When he finally stopped with his tickle assault, I giggled myself right into a bookcase sending several books tumbling off the shelf.

“Oh. I’m so sorry.” I scrambled to pick them up.

“It’s okay. I’ll get them.” He knelt down and gathered the escaped novels. Seeing him bent down on his knees made my heart flutter a little. When he glanced up at me, insecurity possessed his features for the briefest of seconds. He stood up quickly and shelved them.