The Carrero Solution (Carrero Book 3)

I must’ve gone back to sleep at some point in the car ride through the city because I wake up completely disorientated in a familiar bed; Sarah’s loud snoring and body next to me. I sit up warily as spinning nausea and headache of the world’s worst hangover hit me, and I push down the urge to throw up.

The room is dark and quiet, but that doesn’t mean much. Jake has blackout shades on all his windows, blocking the sun whenever he wants to sleep. I scramble around under the sheets, catching the smell of him from the cushions under my head, and it instantly overwhelms me with a mix of longing, pain, and upset.

I still don’t know how to feel. Great.

I slide out and carefully tread my way to the bedroom door, not wanting to wake Sarah or anyone else, especially when I’ve no idea what time it is. I open the door slightly and hear muffled voices from the kitchen, followed by a sudden rush of brilliant light which makes my eyes smart, and I hurry to cover them from the blinding pain.

It takes a moment to get used to the adjustment, and I check I’m still wearing clothes; last night’s dress and underwear are still intact, which surprises me. I would’ve expected Jake to at least undress me. It’s not like he hasn’t seen me in varying degrees of nakedness. I guess I’m seeing how much of a gentleman he can be. The fact he chose not to sleep in the bed beside me hints at him respecting my need for space. Part of me feels disappointed, and I wonder how it would’ve felt waking up in his bed in his arms. The thud in my stomach hits when I realize that may never happen again. We may never sleep in a bed together again, and I try to push down the thought as a twisting wave of tears runs up inside me.

I head out in search of a drink and some pain relief in hopes of distracting myself from those agonizing thoughts.

I pause when I see Leila and Jake sitting at the breakfast counter, across from one another, talking in hushed tones. They have their heads bent over coffee mugs and a plate of butter croissants, seemingly oblivious to me as I wander out quietly. Just seeing him takes my breath away, and my palms start to clam up.

“Give him time, Leila … You know Daniel’s head is royally fucked-up. He has some serious issues when it comes to love.” Jake leans out and covers her hand with his in a small affectionate gesture, which makes me want him back so badly. I miss having him act that way with me. I miss his attention and soft touches, his never-ending understanding, and how he grounds me.

No! Don’t even go there. He hurt you. You’re not your mother, running back to men who don’t care about what they do to you.

My mind slaps me hard. Somewhere old PA Emma, voice full of stern disgust, finds her way back inside my head.

I clear my throat quietly, spanning the area from his door to the kitchen, and they both look up. Leila smiles, and Jake slowly rises, not hurrying to take his hand from hers. He walks around the kitchen, making me a mug of coffee without lingering too long or looking at me. It hits me like pain under my rib cage and confounds me.

“Morning, you. How you feeling?” Leila looks freshly showered and wearing a T-shirt and shorts belonging to Jake. Her clean face, free from make-up, looks unbelievably young and cute; her blond, choppy hair is tucked behind

her ears making her look ten years younger. No hint of last night’s tear-stained emotional wreck, and I can only admire her for it. I’ve no clue how awful I must look right now, and she’s making me so self-conscious. I try to run my fingers through my hair, knowing my make-up under my eyes must be smeared.

I catch Jake’s eyes flicker to mine and wonder if he thinks I look like an absolute mess; maybe that’s why he’s trying not to look at me.

Great.

“Like I’m dying,” I mumble, trying to get onto the stool beside her, my head aching and mouth dry like sandpaper. I’ve never felt a hangover this bad. I drop my face to avoid him. I obviously look like trash. I wish he could see me looking better or showered at least.

Jake wanders over and slides the coffee in front of me with a glass of water. He reaches out for a pack of aspirin and places them beside me too, his eyes never leaving the task, not once looking at me.

I am stabbed with that tug of pain again. I want his beautiful green eyes to look at me the way he always does. This is just painful. I want to feel like the center of his universe again, commanding his attention and attentiveness. I want him to tell me that I look nice, even though I know I don’t because that’s what he does, what he’s supposed to do. I miss it.

“Thanks,” I utter softly, trying not to focus on him for too long. He pulls the plate of croissants over toward me.

“They’re fresh; I picked them up about a half hour ago, on the way back from my run.” His deep voice is like molten sexiness, and I can’t help but glance up at him. Our eyes meet, but he’s the first to look away, and it emotionally slaps me hard across my heart.

Why won’t he look at me? Because I was a drunken mess last night and now probably look a hundred times worse. Hardly the picture of beauty he probably imagined in our separation.

My head starts going crazy with suspicions, self-doubt, and panic, my stomach lurching once more, and my nerves get the better of me.

Has he been with someone else in my absence? Because he could, we’re not together, and it’s who he used to be. Has he decided he doesn’t love me after all? Oh, my God … has he decided we’re not worth the fight?

I swallow a little too heavily, my hand trembling around the glass with shaking fingers. Wetness building in my eyes as I try to focus on the water inside the cup.

“I love you. Even hung over with last night’s make-up on, you’re stunning,” Jake whispers quietly, as his hand slides over mine on the glass, his face close enough for my cheek to warm from his breath; his touch the healing balm I ache for. I flicker up sharply, surprised at how he guesses my inner thoughts, always knowing how to calm me. “Stop doubting it, Emma.” Our eyes lock, and he lets me go quickly, leaving my hand cold and pining for his warmth. Then, as though nothing happened, he returns to drinking his coffee. I can feel Leila’s eyes on me.

“I’m going to leave you two to talk while I get dressed. You guys need some time alone.” Her hand comes to my shoulder. “Give him a chance, Emma, babes. Men are programmed to be shitheads. They can’t help it.” She kisses me on the cheek softly, throwing Jake a supportive wink before sliding down, and padding off toward the guest rooms at the far end of the apartment.

“If you’re not ready to talk yet, I can understand. I’ll take you and Sarah home when you’re ready.” He stays focused on swirling the coffee in his mug, steady voice, and relaxed posture. He seems to be quietly mulling over his thoughts, not letting me get any vibes into what he’s feeling.

I swallow hard and inhale very slowly.

Decide, Emma. This is the moment to either move forward or stay here in this pain. It’s time to either bite it and talk or go back to hiding in self-pity.

“Maybe when you take Sarah home, I can get a shower and freshen up here?” I can’t bring myself to look at him, my insides turning to jelly. “I’ll need to get her up soon anyway because she’s working today.” I sound feeble and unsure of myself, part of me wondering if he’ll even want me to stay or if he’ll just send me home.

“I’d love nothing more than to have you stay if you’re sure?” the tiny hint of hope in his voice is obvious, and it hurts more than I can bear. Not in a bad way but in an ‘I’m so royally broken-hearted over you yet you still give me tingles’ kind of way. We glance at one other and quickly look away, awkward and emotional, unable to stand the gaze of one another’s eyes for more than seconds.

Okay, now I get why he won’t look at me for long. This shit hurts.

“You don’t need to get me up. I’m up.” Sarah’s hoarse and grumpy voice echoes our way from the bedroom door; we turn in surprise to see the disheveled mess slumped

there. Her face a smear of make-up, and her hair sticking up at odd angles. “What the hell did we drink last night?” She groans, looking around, searching for something.

“Your bags are all on the couch with your shoes.” Jake points out, and I spot the little mini mountain of bags, shoes, and coats piled carefully on the sofa. Another thoughtful Jake move; any other man would have dumped them on the floor by the door.

“Thanks. I’m sure Marcus is going crazy over my whereabouts right now.” She practically crawls to the couch and starts rummaging in her bag.

“I called him from your cell when we got here last night and told him I’d bring you home this morning. He was cool with that.” Jake cuts in, and I find myself glancing at him with no surprise at all. This is who he is - smart, intuitive, and mature in so many ways, always thinking of every detail and doing what needs to be done. I sigh a little.

“God. Did you tell him what an absolute drunken mess I was?” She groans, trying to scroll through her phone one-handed while pulling her shoes on in a rather awkward and dangerous pose.

“I left out the part about peeling you off a bar floor and having you throw up all over the back of my car,” Jake smirks at her, and I catch the grimace running across her face as she tries to remember. The look of disgust at her behavior.

“Jesus. I’m so sorry. I never drink as much as that. Leila is an awful influence on me, but damn, that girl is hilarious.” She giggles and goes back to her phone.

“It’s fine. The car’s already been taken to get detailed. Jefferson was the only one to endure the smell, almost enough to get drunk on the fumes.” Jake is smiling.

God, that smile.

Good humor from him, despite looking shattered since he hasn’t slept.

“Ha. You need to let me pay for it, seriously. I can’t let you pay to clean up my mess.” Sarah turns our way and walks toward us, pure sincerity on that stubborn face, but Jake only shakes his head. I’m surprised at the lack of hostility toward him, especially since this very awkward scene is because of him.

“Don’t worry about it. If it wasn’t you, then it was going to be Emma. Kudos to her though she waited until we hit the curb.” I snap up and gawp at him with a shocked flush to my face.

I threw up in front of Jake. Oh, my God.

“I’m sorry.” I fumble the words out, embarrassed, my eyes hit my fingers in my lap, and I twist at the hem of my very short dress.

Great way to show the man who hurt you that you’re so in control and worth every inch of the fight to get you back. Especially when you drunk dial him, need his rescue, and then throw up at his feet.

Classy, Emma … just classy.

“Don’t be. I’m glad I was the one there to take care of you. It was a drunk Emma I’ve never met before.” His eyes linger this time, and I can feel them boring into me a little too closely, his scrutiny making me feel more awkward. I wish the ground would open below my feet and swallow me whole.