My fingers trembled as I stared at Sebastian's note. The elegant handwriting seemed to mock my disheveled state. Sebastian Sinclair had been in my apartment. He had seen me at my absolute worst. And he had taken care of me.
I slumped against the counter, mortification washing over me in waves. What exactly had happened last night? My memories remained frustratingly fragmented—his arms supporting me, his voice low and soothing in my ear, the warmth of his body against mine...
Had I imagined that kiss? Or worse, had I thrown myself at him in my drunken state?
The thought made me groan aloud. I pulled open the refrigerator door and found the container of congee exactly where his note had indicated. The gesture was so unexpectedly intimate—Sebastian Sinclair, one of the most powerful men in the city, had cooked hangover food for me.
