She tried to focus, dragging her gaze upwards until it settled on Sawyer’s face. He gave her a stunning smile that fluttered her stomach and ignited a new wave of pain. She groaned, squeezing her temples as she rolled, letting her head fall back on the bed. “What time is it?” “Seven-thirty. Here, take these.” He nudged her with his hand and she shifted her gaze just enough to see the pills and glass in his hands. She peered at him. “What are those?” “Spanish fly. What the hell do you think they are? Motrin. Now take them before those bongos in your head get any louder.” She scowled at him, but took the pills, downing them with a gulp of water. “How did you know?” He snorted, his ass crowding the space beside her. “You downed four shots of whisky in the space of a heartbeat last night—all on an empty stomach. It doesn’t take a neurosurgeon to figure out you might feel like shit this morning.” His gave travelled down the length of her body, pausing at her hips.
