Oliver hadn’t expected her to be awake. He paused, then reached over and switched on a small table lamp.
His voice was low and rough, like he’d been chewing gravel. “Did I wake you?”
“No.” Patricia’s reply was barely more than a whisper. She was uncomfortable, her words almost fading away. As he came closer, the heavy scent of alcohol hit her, and she couldn’t help but ask, “Did you drink a lot?”
“Yeah, more than a little.”
He really did seem drunk. He stood at the foot of the bed, no furniture nearby to steady himself, looking a little unsteady.
Patricia leaned forward from where she sat against the headboard, about to say something. But then she watched as he bent down, set his phone on the bench at the end of the bed, and sat down himself.
“Should I call Johns to come up?” she offered quietly.
“No need.” Oliver pulled the tie from around his neck and tossed it aside.
Patricia frowned. “You drank too much.”
He answered simply, “I’m still clearheaded.”



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