“No sorry necessary.”
She gave him a weary, half smile, but her eyelids drooped.
“Say good night, Chloe.”
“G’nite, Chloe,” she mumbled and passed out.
Michael drove back to Casa Clemente with Chloe’s soft breathing as the only soundtrack to the otherwise-quiet night. He parked and came around to the passenger side of the Jeep to assess his options. He opened the door and unhooked her seat belt. No reaction.
“Chloe,” he said, and shook her shoulder. Still nothing. He pinched the bridge of his nose and then ran his hand over his head and along the back of his neck. His back felt better than it had in three weeks, but, while it galled him to admit it, he doubted the healing disc would tolerate him carrying her up the stairs like a bride. Over his shoulder would be safer. What it lacked in romance it more than made up for in the reduced likelihood of him dumping her on her ass if his back failed. Carrying her like that also left him with a hand free to grab the rail and stabilize, if necessary. He knelt down in front of the open door, settled her over his right shoulder, and was about to take her full weight when he heard her groan.
“Relax. I’ve got you.”
She must have opened her eyes and figured out what he had in mind, because she pulled away. “Don’t…your back.”
He looked at her wide, dilated pupils and the way she held onto the dash even though she was sitting in an unmoving vehicle. “I’m good—it’s you I’m not so sure about.” With that, he took her arm, leaned his shoulder into her middle, and lifted her out of the Jeep. He clamped his right arm around her hips while her fingers tangled in his beltloops.
“I can walk!”
“Oh, come on. Let me play the hero a little longer.” He kicked the car door shut and took a step toward the stairwell, giving her a little bounce in the process to adjust her weight to a more even distribution. He could handle this. No problem.
“Michael…” His name sounded sort of choked. “…don’t want to throw up all over you.”
Okay, slight problem. He stopped. “Are you serious?”
“Uh-huh.”
He loosened his arm from around her waist and slowly lowered her to her feet, holding back a groan when her soft curves slid over him. She staggered a little and put her hand on his chest for balance, then blinked up at him and took several deep breaths.
“Better?”
“Mucho.” She let go of his chest, and offered him a sloppy smile when her balance held.
“Awesome. Ready for some stairs?”
Her expression firmed into one of extreme determination, more appropriate to Mount Everest than Casa Clemente. They made it up to his apartment without him doing much more than occasionally steering her back on track. She paused at her door and looked at her left side, then her right, and then at him.
“Your purse is in the car.” He unlocked his door and held it open. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable in my place and I’ll go get it.” He wasn’t letting her out of his sight until she’d downed a Gatorade and a couple painkillers, and kept them down.
“’Kay. Mind if I use your potty?”
He pointed to the hall. “First door on your right.”
While she took care of business, he got a sports drink from the fridge, sat on the couch, and waited. And waited. He gave it five minutes and then took the drink, walked down the hall, and tapped on the bathroom door.
“Chloe?”
Chapter Six
A muffled moan came from the other side of the door.
Ah, hell. Michael turned the knob. It gave. He opened the door and found Chloe curled up on the floor with her forehead resting against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl. “I wish your bathroom would stop spinning.”
He reached into the medicine cabinet and shook two ibuprofen tablets into his palm. Then he crouched beside her and rubbed her back. “Sorry. I should have warned you. When you drink too much, my toilet turns into a teacup ride. Open your eyes. That will help.”
She smiled weakly and fought one bloodshot eye open to stare at him. He held out the ibuprofen. “Full recovery is a three step process. Step one—the magic pills.”
“Thank you.” She let go of the toilet, sat straighter, and reached for the painkillers with the slow, carefully executed movements of someone with severely impaired reflexes.