If You Need Me (The Toronto Terror Series)

It feels like there’s a full twelve-piece band, complete with cymbals, playing out of tune in my head. My mouth tastes like ass. My head is throbbing.

I reluctantly crack an eyelid, only half committed to dealing with today. I’m momentarily perplexed by my unfamiliar surroundings. I sift through my brain, which feels like a bowl of congealed oatmeal, and try to figure out what happened last night to make me feel so horrendous.

I roll onto my back, taking stock of my surroundings. I’m in a hotel room. The honeymoon suite Dallas’s mom so sweetly booked for us. I’d planned to stage some photos and a video walk-through so we’d have evidence of our romantic celebration. But I was not supposed to wake up here.

I glance to my right, and the horrible churning in my gut becomes overwhelming nausea. Lying on his back, head turned toward me, one hand lying palm up between us—almost as if he’s looking for a hand to hold—is a very attractive, very passed-out Dallas. The sheet is pushed down to his waist, revealing his muscular, bare chest.

Oh fuck. Did we sleep together?

We better not have had sex. Especially not sex I can’t remember. My stomach lurches. I throw off the sheets and roll out of bed, which is a terrible idea. The room spins, and my legs give out. I land on the floor in a heap. My anxiety reaches full-blown panic as I take in my attire. I’m wearing Dallas’s T-shirt. And my bra and underpants. But that’s all.

The room tilts perilously as I push to my feet and wobble-weave to the bathroom. I slam the door, the noise reverberating in my head. I make it to the toilet in time to unload a stomach of bile. I heave until there’s nothing left. A full bottle of water sits on the vanity. With trembling hands I twist off the cap, rinse my mouth, then tentatively take a few sips.

I catch my reflection in the mirror. My mascara is smeared under my bloodshot eyes, my hair is a complete wreck, and my skin is pale and blotchy. I look rough. And based on my lack of memory, I’m guessing I was shitfaced.

A tube of toothpaste and an unopened toothbrush sit on the counter, with a second used one beside it. I remove the fresh one from the package, squirt a little toothpaste onto the brush, and scrub away the gross fuzz and horrible taste in my mouth. I brush far longer than necessary, mostly to avoid dealing with the man on the other side of the door.

Even the taste of toothpaste makes me want to throw up again, but I take a few deep breaths and steel myself as I open the door.

Dallas is sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing his navy and pale blue plaid dress pants, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. His head lifts, and his guilty expression makes my stomach lurch again. “Are you okay?”

I tug at the hem of his shirt. “How did I get into this T-shirt?” The black hole where the answer should be scares the hell out of me. Whenever we’re out, I limit myself to one drink, two at the very most, and only on the rarest of occasions. Who knows what I could’ve said to Dallas last night. To anyone, for that matter.

He pushes to his feet and shoves one of his hands into his luxurious wavy hair, causing his biceps to flex and his abs to ripple. Despite how disgusting I feel, I appreciate how frustratingly attractive this man is. To this day he’s still the embodiment of a prom king.

“Seriously, Dallas. I’m freaking out here.”

He moves into my personal space. “I would never touch you without your permission, Wilhelmina. And last night, you were in no condition to give it.” He holds out his hand. “Now, please sit down so I can explain without worrying about you passing out.”

I let him guide me to a chair. He passes me a bottle of water and sits on the arm of the couch. “When we got back here, you weren’t in the best form.”

I cross my arms and try to keep my mortification from showing on my face. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been throw-up drunk in my entire life. I do not like to lose control. “That does not explain how I got into this shirt.” My voice wavers with fresh anxiety. What did I do last night? Did I throw myself at Dallas while I was drunk?

Dallas’s gaze lifts to the ceiling before dropping to meet mine again. “You threw up. Some of it got on your clothes. Which understandably made you upset. Then you took your dress off.”

“I got naked in front of you?” My voice is dog-whistle pitched.

“Not naked. I stopped you before you got further than your dress. You were not in any shape to know what you were doing, so I walked you to the bathroom and cleaned you up as best I could, then took my shirt off and gave it to you.” He runs his tongue over his eye-tooth but doesn’t look away. “But in the interest of full transparency, your coordination was not great. You were having trouble getting into my shirt, so I had to help you with my eyes closed.”

I cover my mouth with my palm. “Oh my God.” The only time I’ve been more humiliated was senior year and yesterday when I got engaged. Ironically, those horrible situations also involved Dallas.

He rubs his bottom lip, expression full of empathy and regret. I want to believe it’s real.

“I understand that I’m probably the last person you would want to take care of you. But I couldn’t leave you alone last night. All I did was clean you up, help you get into my shirt, and put you to bed. I had your dress sent out to dry cleaning once you were settled.”

“That’s all that happened?” I croak.

He wets his bottom lip. “Yes. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” I narrow my eyes.

“I was worried about you rolling onto your back in the middle of the night.”

When he doesn’t continue right away, I make a go-on motion. “Spit it out, Dallas.”

“You kept trying to roll onto your back. Even when I put pillows behind you, you pushed them out of the way, so eventually I just spooned you.”

“You spooned me?” I parrot.

“Yeah. I did what was necessary to keep you safe, and I won’t apologize for that.” He crosses his arms.

All that does is highlight his incredible muscles and defined pecs, which again, is a really fucking annoying thing to notice. Especially knowing he held me all night so he could protect me from myself.

“In the spirit of honesty, you move around a lot, and all that friction paired with the worry may have caused some…swelling.”

I blink at him, and he blinks back at me. “You spooned me with a hard-on?”

He clears his throat. “I did my best to limit contact, but I had to stay close to keep you on your side.”

There’s a knock at the door.

“That’s room service with breakfast.” He hustles over.

I stand there, mulling over his words. It doesn’t sound like Dallas got much sleep last night. He is absolutely correct; I’m a back sleeper. So the quest he was on would’ve been challenging, and rather ironic, all things considered.

A moment later he reappears, pushing a rolling cart with three silver-dome-covered platters on it. A bag from one of my favorite clothing stores dangles from his wrist.

“I called the office to inform them that you’d be in a little later this morning. Hammer said you didn’t have any pressing appointments until the afternoon, so I let you sleep in. Dry cleaning will be up soon with your dress, but I ordered outfit options so you had something to wear to work. If you want to have a shower, I had your preferred brand of shampoo and body wash brought up. It’s all in the bathroom, but maybe some food first will settle your stomach.” He taps one of the dome lids.

I don’t know how to handle take-charge Dallas, but food isn’t a bad idea. I can’t even imagine how much I must’ve drunk last night to feel this awful. I remember almost nothing after arriving at the bar. I have only the faintest inkling that I danced with Dallas.

I cross the room, uncaring that most of my legs are on display since Dallas has already seen me in my bra and undies. It’s not much different than a bikini. I take a seat at the very beautiful dining table, complete with a vase of roses.

Dallas rolls the cart over and sets a plate and silverware in front of me. He even spreads a napkin over my lap before he transfers the covered platters to the table. He lifts the lids one at a time, revealing the contents. One platter contains a variety of seasonal fresh fruit and an assortment of muffins and pastries. The second contains strip bacon, eggs, peameal bacon, sausage links, and hash browns. The third holds French toast, pancakes, filled crêpes, and an assortment of toppings, including flambéed bananas and peaches.

Dallas runs his hands over his thighs again. It’s a nervous habit. He does it a lot. Especially when we are at a promo op that makes him uncomfortable. “I didn’t know what you’d feel like, so I got a little of everything.”

“Thank you.” He’s being exceptionally considerate.

“I should’ve kept a better eye on you last night and traded a couple of those glasses of champagne for water.” He fills my coffee cup, then passes me the cream and sugar.

“I wouldn’t have listened if you’d told me to slow down.”

“But you would’ve listened to the girls if I’d said something. I’ll be right back.” He leaves me to load up a plate and returns a minute later with a fresh water and a bottle of painkillers. “For your headache.”

“Thanks.” I pop two painkillers, down them with water, and start with buttered toast. It seems wasteful and unfortunate that there’s all this beautiful food and all I have an appetite for is toast, but I don’t want to end up back in the bathroom for the wrong reason.

Dallas takes the chair across from me and pours himself a coffee, then digs into the pancakes.

While he drenches them in maple syrup, I study his face. He has dark circles around his eyes. I can’t believe he was up half the night making sure I had clothes for today and my work schedule was taken care of. Not to mention keeping me from choking to death in my sleep.

I don’t know how to feel about being taken care of by him. He owes me for the cluster he’s created, but this is different. He was legitimately worried. Everything he’s done tells me that. I still hate him, and I hate being stuck in this situation, but he’s also…really fucking thoughtful. It’s conflicting. As is the memory of the kisses we shared yesterday. They were most definitely the catalyst for all of my bad decision-making around champagne.

My brain is functioning at about ten-percent capacity, and my tongue is probably barbed this morning, but still I state the obvious. There’s no getting around it. “People are going to get hurt when this charade ends.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Your mom was so happy last night, Dallas.” She was beaming. And I like her. A lot. She’s sweet, and kind and exactly the kind of woman I would want as my mother-in-law. If this were real.

“Yeah. She was.”

“I’m wearing your grandmother’s engagement ring.” It’s stunning. And it shouldn’t be mine.

“I promise I’ll fix this, Wills. I won’t make this your cross to bear,” he says softly. It’s very clear that even though he continues to complicate my life with these media stunts, Dallas feels real remorse over how this has all played out.

“I’m not sure that’s possible.” Being his girlfriend was bad enough, but being his fiancée…

I push my plate away and stand. All I managed was two pieces of toast, a couple bites of egg, and one piece of bacon—but my appetite has disappeared. I leave Dallas looking forlorn and hop into the shower, wash off last night’s sins, and get ready for work.

I’m incredibly surprised—though maybe shouldn’t be—that the outfits Dallas had sent over for me are exactly my size. Option one is a pair of high-waisted, black dress pants, a pale blue chiffon blouse, and a white blazer. Option two is a teal dress with pockets. The fabric is soft, the cut is flattering, and it’s the obvious winner. He even bought me a pair of shoes, with a kitten heel, as well as fresh underwear. They’re nude, and seamless full coverage, but there are thong, bikini brief, and boy short options. Apparently, he wanted to cover all the bases for my booty.

By the time I’m ready, I feel less like garbage and slightly more human. “There wasn’t a receipt in the bag, so let me know what I owe you for these and I’ll e-transfer you the funds.” He must’ve asked Shilpa about my sizes.

Dallas is still shirtless. This is funny, since he went out of his way to make sure I was fully dressed but didn’t bother to get himself an extra T-shirt. Now he has to wear the one I slept in. He tucks one hand into the pocket of his dress pants as his gaze moves over me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was an appreciative sweep.

“It’s my fault you ended up in the state you did. The outfit is on me.”

I narrow my eyes. “Does it come with any strings attached?”

“The string is that you’re my fiancée for the next little while, Wilhelmina.” He moves in closer, eyes on mine. “As your significant other, who makes several million dollars a year, I will buy you things, including clothes. It’s my job to pay attention to you and your needs, and I failed at that last night.”

I’m too tired and my brain hurts too much to remind him that I’m his fake fiancée, so those rules don’t apply.

“I would like to drive you to work,” he states.

I could deny him and take an Uber, but I’m not in the mood to be nice to someone I know, let alone to someone I don’t know. “Okay, that would be good.”

“Great. Good. Let me box up the food. The fruit and muffins you can take to work.”

“What about the rest of it? Seems like a waste.”

“There are a couple of guys down the street from the hotel who are unhoused. They might like the waffles and stuff.”

I love that he has a plan in mind. Having worked with Flip the past couple of years, and having spent a lot of time with Rix, I’m aware that they often didn’t have enough growing up. When Flip isn’t helping Tristan coach kids with special needs or trying to keep his endorsement campaigns from being cancelled, he’s all about giving back to the community. He donates to school programs and foodbanks.

I gather my personal effects, which consist of last night’s panties, the dry-cleaning bag containing my dress, and a tiny clutch purse with my lipstick and phone. Dallas carries the extra clothes and takeout containers.

We leave the beautiful room that did not get the appreciation it should have and make our way to the lobby. As promised, Dallas gives two unhoused men our takeout boxes. The valet brings his car around—which means he somehow orchestrated getting it back here—and he drives me to the office.

When we arrive at work, I pause with my hand on the door handle. “Thanks for taking care of me last night.”

“I’d do it a million times over, Wills. I’m sorry I stressed you out to the point that you drank too much.”

“I’m responsible for my own actions, Dallas. At least Brooklyn and Sean’s engagement isn’t the biggest deal at the reunion anymore, right?” It seems so petty to even care.

“There’s that.” Dallas gives me a small smile. “I hope today doesn’t suck too badly for you.”

“Me too.”

He looks like he wants to say something else, but I get out of the vehicle before he can make me dislike him any less.