Chapter 12

DIANA

Groaning, I rolled over in bed, reaching blindly for my phone to shut off the blaring alarm. But as my fingers fumbled for the snooze button, I realized with a jolt that I had overslept. With a gasp, I shot up, my heart racing as I glanced at the time.

"Shit, shit, shit," I muttered under my breath, scrambling out of bed and throwing on the nearest clothes I could find. The room spun around me as I stumbled toward the bathroom, my head pounding with the remnants of last night's alcohol-fueled escapades.

I tried to shake off the dizziness by splashing cold water on my face, desperately trying to wake myself up. But no amount of water seemed to ease the throbbing ache in my head. I cursed myself for overindulging the night before.

While I twisted my hair into a messy bun—a legit messy bun—a memory began to creep into my foggy mind. Images of the previous night flashed before my eyes. The too many shots, the pool hall, the dimly lit street as I stumbled home. And then a face. His face. Hudson had helped me home and tucked me into bed, his touch gentle and caring.

I tried to remember what I said to him. I remembered talking to him about Greece and Machu Picchu. Why? Why in the world was I talking to him about that?

I couldn't remember.

What I did remember was his kindness and his words of encouragement the night before. A warmth spread through my chest. He had given me such a feeling of safety and understanding in that vulnerable moment. As I rushed to get ready, the warm feeling was replaced by a wave of nausea that threatened to send me running back to the bathroom. Clenching my jaw, I forced myself to push through the discomfort, knowing that I didn't have time to be sick.

My eyes hurt. My hair hurt. My toenails hurt. Nothing felt right but I still had to get to work.

I stumbled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and disheveled, only to find Hudson standing over the stove, a sizzling pan in one hand and a spatula in the other.

I blinked, rubbing my eyes to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. "What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice groggy with sleep and confusion.

He turned to me with a grin and flipped a pancake expertly in the air before catching it back in the pan. "Making breakfast," he replied casually as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

I glanced at the clock on the wall, which said I was already running behind schedule. "I don't have time for breakfast," I said, my stomach lurching at the smell of food.

Hudson just waved me off, gesturing toward the table where he had laid out a spread fit for a king. "Nonsense," he said cheerfully. "You need to eat something. Besides, I already made it."

"I really don't think I can," I groaned.

"Trust me," he said with a smile. "Your hangover is begging for a lot of protein. Take it from a guy that has had many, many hangovers."

Reluctantly, I shuffled over to the table, my stomach churning uneasily as I eyed the food. The thought of eating made me feel even queasier, but I knew he was right. I needed something in my stomach to soak up the alcohol and settle my roiling gut.

With a sigh, I picked up a fork and reluctantly began to nibble on a piece of toast, forcing myself to choke down a few bites of eggs and bacon. "I don't think this is working," I groaned.

"Eat more toast and bacon," he said. "Drink some juice. There's two ibuprofen. Take those."

As I struggled to eat, Hudson watched me with a knowing look in his eyes, as if he could sense my discomfort. I smiled weakly, grateful for his kindness even as I cursed myself for my own stupidity. How had I let things get this out of hand? And why did Hudson have to look so damn charming even when I felt like death warmed over?

He had drunk more than I did, but he looked like he slept a good eight hours and was ready to run a marathon. It was unfair, really, how effortlessly he seemed to get through the aftermath of a night of drinking.

"Thanks for making sure I got home," I said. "And I think I remember you putting me in bed."

"You're welcome," he said as he cleaned up the kitchen.

Maybe this hangover wasn't so bad after all, if it meant I got to spend a little more time with him. I did my best to finish the bacon and toast. The eggs were perfectly cooked, but I couldn't eat them.

"I really have to go," I said. "I'm cutting it very close."

"Ibuprofen." He pointed at the pills.

I smiled and quickly swallowed them down with some water. "Thanks again for everything," I said. "Stay as long as you want. Just lock the door on your way out, please. I assume you're trustworthy enough. If you were going to rob me, you wouldn't have stuck around and made me breakfast."

He chuckled. "Good point. Take care."

With a quick wave, I darted out into the bright morning sunshine. Quickly pulling on my sunglasses, I made a mental note to call Hudson later and thank him properly. I glanced around frantically, my eyes scanning the street for any sign of my car. But it was nowhere to be found.

"Oh, shit," I muttered under my breath, panicking. I didn't have a car. That was how hungover I was. I forgot I totaled my car. Now I was going to be late for work.

The school was only a half mile away from my house. Cursing my own forgetfulness, I broke into a run, my feet pounding against the pavement. Half a mile might not seem like much, but when you're already running late and nursing a hangover, every step felt like torture. A little troll in my brain banged a gong, and my throat was dry.

Sweat beaded on my forehead as I finally neared the school. The breakfast I scarfed down was threatening to come back up.

How had I managed to forget something as important as my car? I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that this was just one more sign that my life in Cold Springs was becoming increasingly unbearable. The constant pressure from my father, the stifling small-town gossip, and now this embarrassing mistake? All of it was starting to wear me down.

Taking a moment to compose myself, I straightened my blouse and took a deep breath, trying to shake off the remnants of my hangover and summon up the energy to face the day ahead. I pushed open the door and stepped into the bustling hallway, ready to face a bunch of rambunctious kids.

I was a little sweaty and a lot disheveled but hoped no one would notice. Unfortunately, the one person I didn't want to run into was standing front and center. The principal was waiting for me, arms crossed and expression stern. I braced myself for the inevitable lecture.

"Miss Halstead," he began, his voice tinged with disappointment. "This is the second time this month you've been late. I hope you realize the importance of punctuality in our profession. How are you going to hold your students to a standard you can't keep?"

I nodded, knowing I didn't have a good excuse. "I'm sorry, sir," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. "It won't happen again."

He gave me a curt nod before turning on his heel and striding off down the hallway, leaving me feeling thoroughly chastised. None of the kids had overheard at least. I pushed down the embarrassment and frustration that threatened to overwhelm me, then made my way to my classroom, hoping I could get through the next seven hours. The day had barely begun, and already I was fighting an uphill battle.

As I entered the classroom, the chatter among the students died down, all eyes turning toward me. I offered them a weak smile, trying to ignore the whispers and glances exchanged between them.

"Good morning, everyone," I said. "Who's ready for a good day?"

It was my usual routine. I was ready for a nap quite frankly, but that wasn't an option. "Let's start with five minutes of free writing," I said. "Everyone, get out your journals."

The students eagerly reached for their journals. Pencils scratched against paper as they dove into their writing. I took a moment to walk around the classroom, peering over shoulders and offering quiet words of encouragement. Then I gratefully returned to my desk and sat down. This was not going to be one of those really exciting days of learning. I was going to white-knuckle my way through.

At lunch, the kids headed for the cafeteria and I decided to scarf down a granola bar and just take a quick little catnap. Rachel's giggling woke me up. I was drooling on my desk, my forehead resting on the cool surface.

"Is the day over yet?" I asked with a groan.

"Hey there, sleepyhead," Rachel said, grinning. "I got you something."

I lifted my head and managed a weak smile. She handed me a bag. "What's this?"

"Hangover cure."

"I'm not sure I can handle anymore hangover cures," I groaned.

"You need food," she said.

Inside the bag was a bottle of Gatorade and a few slices of toast. "Thanks, Rachel."

I took a few bites, which did seem to help. I sipped on the Gatorade, letting the cool liquid pour down my scratchy throat. I soon found myself feeling slightly more human.

Rachel pulled out her phone and tapped away at the screen before turning it toward me. "Check this out," she said, a mischievous glint in her eye.

I peered at the screen and took in the image displayed before me. My heart skipped a beat. It was a photo of Hudson and me, captured in a moment of pure joy. His head was thrown back with laughter, his eyes crinkled at the corners. I had a hold of the front of his shirt, my own smile wide and unguarded.

In that moment, looking at the photo, I realized something that I had been trying to deny ever since I met Hudson.

I had a crush.

A big, fat, undeniable crush.

Excitement mingled with a healthy dose of apprehension. I couldn't remember the last time I had felt this way about a guy. It had been a while.

Who knew where this newfound infatuation would lead? All I knew was that I was eager to find out. I told her about Hudson sleeping on the couch and making me breakfast.

"That's a keeper," she said. "If you don't want him, let me know. I'd be more than happy to take him off your hands."

"Back off," I said before I could help myself.

Rachel laughed again. "Oh, girl, you're in trouble. This is going to be so much fun to watch."