“Zombies? That shit has like, more than four shots in it, Peyton.”
“Well, now those shots are in the street,” I mumble against his shirt, then add a self-deprecating laugh. “They weren’t in me long enough to get me that drunk.”
“I’m going kill that fucker,” he says, his hands at my waist. “Shove that stupid flaming guitar right up his taking-advantage ass.”
“His guitar is stupid,” I say in agreement, weaving more as a hot flash hits me.
“Come on.” He tugs me by the waist across the sidewalk. “There are cars waiting out front.”
Forcing my feet forward, I groan. “So I could have left earlier instead of watching . . .”
“Watching what?” he asks, rounding the corner.
“Nothing,” I say, and simply concentrate on keeping up with him.
Sam tows me through the mass of people waiting outside to get into the bar. The guy standing next to one of the waiting town cars looks us over suspiciously.
“I’m in Luminescent Juliet,” Sam says, reaching for the door handle because the guy doesn’t open the door.
The driver moves as if to stop him.
“I’m not in the mood for this shit, dude. She’s sick”—he gestures toward me—“and you’re taking us back to the hotel.” Sam whips the door open. “Now.”
I lean back against the leather seat and force myself to relax. The short car ride is quiet as my stomach slowly settles. When we pull into the roundabout in front of the hotel, the driver asks for Sam’s name.
Gently helping me out, Sam says, “Samuel Fucking Carr.” He slams the door shut and flips the guy off.
On the sidewalk, my continued weaving inspires me to tug off my high-heeled sandals. The cool concrete feels nice and solid under my feet. I take a few more steps toward the entrance but stop when Sam gently pulls my arm.
“You can’t walk barefoot on this dirty-ass sidewalk.”
“I can’t walk in those shoes anymore,” I say, taking several more slow steps forward.
Sam strides in front of me and turns. “Then get on my back.”
His comment from yesterday instantly pops in my head. “No.”
“No?” he asks over his shoulder.
“No boobs on your back.”
Turning around, he rolls his eyes but as I step forward, he sweeps me off my feet and into his arms. My head swims for a moment from the quick movement as my body bounces in his arms, one under my knees and the other around my back with his hand wrapped around my ribs, just under my breast. I’m quickly mortified.
“You’re not carrying me!” I hiss, embarrassed by being carried and because my breath is gross after puking.
He starts moving. “It appears that I am.”
“Put. Me. Down!” I accentuate each word, with the sandals in my hand pointed at him.
“When we get in the room.”
He steps into the foyer. Luckily, it’s nearly empty, but the few people inside give us startled looks as Sam strolls past them with me in his arms. Unfortunately, the singer from Brookfield is at the reception counter. Watching us, he waves and grins.
I’m completely mortified as we pass him. “Put me down,” I repeat.
“Soon.” There’s an open elevator waiting, and he moves into it and steps to the front corner. “Push nine.”
“Okay.” I don’t push the button. “Just put me down.”
Ignoring me, he shifts my weight and pushes the button himself.
I glare at his five-o’clock-shadowed chin all the way up, and then down the hall. Even at the door to our room, he doesn’t put me down.
Shifting my weight, he says, “Get the key from my back pocket.”
“Sam,” I say in warning, not reaching for the key.
“I can stand here holding you all night.”
“Fine,” I growl, and jerk the key from his pocket, trying to ig-nore the appealingly tight muscle of his butt under his jeans.
I slide the card in and he pushes the door open with one foot. Once inside, he deposits me in a chair. The sandals drop from my hand and I push myself up to stand. Even without heels, I still weave. I put a hand to my forehead. “Whoa.”
“Sit down,” Sam snaps.
I follow orders and fall back against the cushions of the chair.
Sam kneels in front of me and grasps my chin gently. “Do you think that asshole slipped something in your drink?”
I recall Rick whispering to the waitress, yet she brought me the drinks. “No, I—I don’t think so.” Why would I be so woozy? My hand comes up this time to slap my forehead. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Between the heat and working and then those crazy drinks . . .”
“Why the hell would you do that?” Sam growls, standing.
I rub the skin of my forehead, which I’d just slapped. “I just forgot.”
He goes to the minibar and starts pulling items out, then dumps juice, peanuts, and a candy bar onto my lap. “Eat,” he orders, then sits down on the bed across from the chair and stares at me.
Obviously, he’s going to give me the cool stare until I eat. I open the juice and reach for the peanuts. As I pop a few nuts in, his mouth twists into a slight satisfied smile, and he gets up and goes to the bathroom.
I stare into space and follow his orders, eating slowly. I’ve finished half of the small bag of peanuts when he comes out, holding wet washcloths and a towel. As he kneels and reaches for one foot, I try to jump out of the chair.
“What are you doing?”
He gently pushes me down. “Washing your feet,” he says in a simple tone. “They’re grossing me out.”
I tuck my feet under the chair. “Ah, no. Gross or not.”
His expression turns stern. “Are you going to take a shower? Or just pass out?”
The thought of undressing, of simply turning on the shower, of the energy it will take, has me untucking my feet. “Pass out.”
He gently washes both feet with one washcloth, then wipes the soap off with another. Staring at his dark curly hair, I’m completely mortified and extremely touched by his care of me.
He sits back on his heels and grins warmly. “No more gross.”
“Thanks,” I say, knowing my cheeks must be flushed.
He glances at the peanut bag, then raises a brow.
I dump the rest of peanuts into my mouth. “Happy?” I ask from a mouthful of peanuts.
“Almost.” He stands and gestures to the candy bar on my lap.
I swallow the last of the nuts and tear open the candy wrapper. “Geez, I’m getting to it.”
I’m munching on the chocolate peacefully but almost spit it out when I notice Sam going through my suitcase. He’s holding up a lacy pair of pink panties in one hand and the matching bra in the other.
“What are you doing?” I screech.
“Looking for pajamas.”
I wash down the candy with a huge gulp of juice. “Those are obviously not them.”
He grins over his shoulder. “I know. I got distracted.”
“Put those down! My sleep shorts and tanks are in the front.”
His thumb brushes over a lacy cup, and I instantly imagine him touching me instead. He shoots me a smile like he knows what I’m thinking before carefully folding—folding!—both items and setting them down.
I glare at him as he comes over to me with shorts and a tank top bunched in his hand.
“Need any help getting dressed?” he asks innocently.
“No,” I hiss. I stand slowly, then snatch the clothes from his hand. “Don’t touch my underwear ever again.”
He steps back with a smirk. “I’ll let you touch mine if it makes you feel better.”
“Better? It would reduce me to vomiting again.”
“Right,” he says, reaching for the other half of the candy bar on the table next to me. “Doubt that.”
Ignoring him, I wobble to the bathroom. I find my cosmetic bag on the counter. Moisturizer, a brush, and my already loaded toothbrush are beside it. Again, despite all the innuendo, Sam’s attentiveness is touching.