Читать книгу Confessions of a Girl-Next-Door - Jackie Braun - Страница 8

THE storm was in full swing by the time Holly came downstairs an hour later. Rain pelted the windows and lightning illuminated the inky sky, followed by loud crashes of thunder that shook the home’s foundation. It was a spectacle to behold, by turns frightening and thrilling. Even so, Hank was sprawled out on the couch, his snores competing with the storm. She envied the man’s ability to fall asleep so easily. Even on perfectly quiet nights, Holly seldom slept soundly. She usually had too much going through her mind to relax and simply drift off. She’d tried the old remedies, such as counting sheep and listening to soothing music. Neither had much effect. Meditation sometimes worked. As did reading really, really boring accounts of her country’s gross domestic product.

The royal physician blamed her insomnia on anxiety and had prescribed pills that she rarely took. They made her too groggy the next day, as if she were walking through a fog. She preferred to have her wits about her, even if it meant slumbering off sometimes during a dinner party. A picture of her with her eyes closed and her chin resting on her chest had graced the front page of a newspaper not long ago.

“This is exactly the kind of publicity you need to avoid,” her mother had warned. “Royal or not, the press can turn public sentiment against you in a heartbeat.”

Even so, Holly had been reluctant to take the pills. Still, she wondered if she would come to regret not bringing them with her for this trip.

Nate stood at the glass door that opened to the deck, one hand in the front pocket of a pair of wrinkled cargo shorts, the other holding a beer. He’d taken a shower. She’d heard the water in his bathroom running not long after she’d shut off the water in the guest bath. His hair was still wet. He wore it on the long side, though not as long as he had as a boy. Back then, it had nearly brushed his shoulders. Now, it just grazed his collar. The color had gotten darker over the years. It bordered on brown, but the sun had left its mark with the kind of highlights that women—and some men—spent vast sums of money at salons hoping to achieve. She couldn’t imagine him sitting still long enough to let a stylist work her magic.