First Draft Romance

CHAPTER SEVEN

The first thing I realize when I'm shaken awake: my mouth is criminally dry. And it tastes terrible too. It's skipped the "morning breath" stage and has gone pretty much straight to "when did I eat dog shit oh my god."

My eyes feel crusty when I manage to get them open. And it's a fucking jump scare, let me tell you.

Roz's face is inches away from mine. Her eyes are wide, her hair disheveled, her lipstick smudged. There's this laughing softness to her expression—I think I might have jumped when she shook me awake. Really, really not a great way to wake up.

It takes me a moment to even realize why I'm here, waking up with Roz in a blurry room as my head spins. But then I remember where I am, and what we were doing. I feel an immediate heat in my cheeks. Did she wake up with her head in my lap? Did I do anything bad or embarrassing or stupid? Oh, fuck—were my fingers still tangled in her hair when she woke up?

I'm gonna die. I am actually going to die.

"Hey there, sleepyhead," Roz says, with this tenderness that makes me want to melt. I can't tell if she still smells like alcohol, or if it's me. Maybe it's both of us. "We've been asleep for a while. We should probably be getting out of Willow's hair now."

I rub my eyes with the backs of my hands. Fuck, there's a really unfortunate crick in my neck. Fuuuck, ow, fuck. I try to deal with it while simultaneously avoiding eye contact with Roz. Is your boss getting drunk and falling asleep in your lap explicitly super duper weird? I don't want it to be weird. Like, I hope I'm not supposed to be finding it weird. It's just ... awkward, that's all.

"What time is it?" I mumble. I spot a trail of flaked off mascara on the backs of my hands, but y'know what? After all the crying earlier, I don't know what I expected was going to happen. I just hope I don't look too terrible.

"It's nearly five," she says. "Why don't you just head home now? I promised Willow I'd sign some books."

I sit a little straighter. There's this panicky feeling in my chest—is she trying to get rid of me early because I'm in trouble? Or was I too much, and she's in desperate need of a Marcie break? "Are you sure you don't have anything I can stick around and help you with? I don't mind."

The way Roz tilts her head to the side and gives me this look should probably feel condescending, but it doesn't. Not really. "That's okay, Marcie. There's nothing here you could really help with anyway."

"Are you sure?" Don't fire me. Please don't fire me. Especially when it's only day fucking two. "I really, really don't mind. It's no trouble. I mean, it's what you pay me for, right?"

"You're so sweet. It's cute." Then she blinks, long and hard, pressing a hand against her forehead and pursing her lips. "Sorry, I'm still a bit tipsy. I shouldn't be speaking to you like that."

"No, no, it's fine. I don't mind." Like ... say more, Roz. Say anything.

She shakes her head, her hand sliding from her forehead to her cheek. Her smile is close-lipped, her eyes squinted shut. "No, it's not appropriate. And I need to work on that."

"Really," I insist, wide-eyed enough for the both of us, "it's okay."

Roz sighs. It's light and breathy and feminine and wow, the chokehold this woman has on me. When she opens her eyes, her pupils shrink just slightly. Her eyes are fucking beautiful—they catch the light, giving them that striking amber honey look from earlier today.

I'm so distracted by her eyes, I nearly don't catch what she's saying.

"You'll probably come to realize this very quickly, but a lot of the people in the circles I run in are very complimentary, in that same kind of way that I can be sometimes. I try to stray away from that in my more professional dealings, but it's very easy to fall into. So, if I do, I'm sorry. And if it makes you uncomfortable, let me know."