Chapter 3

Chocolate eyes flickered open as sun poured through the blinds. They scanned the clock on the bedside table that read 8:27.

Sara groaned as she rolled over in her bed. She had somewhat reluctantly agreed to stop by her father's Christmas morning, despite the fact she knew he wasn't exactly inviting her with open arms. After all, he knew she didn't have anywhere to go during the Christmas season and hadn't bothered to even call her; it was his secretary that had invited her over on the governor's behalf. "What a life I have" she thought to herself. She had to be there before lunch for it to qualify as Christmas morning, and her head was splitting. Her jeans were bunched up uncomfortably around her knees and it was hot under her thick bed covers.

It wasn't until Sara was halfway down the hall towards the bathroom, in hopes that a shower would make her feel better, that the events of the night before vaguely came back to her.

Oh shit.

Sara halted and wondered if Michael had gone home. He wouldn't have stayed all night with it being Christmas and all, but she decided she should probably call and thank him for coming, because although she couldn't remember much, he probably hadn't had the best Christmas Eve with her so severely intoxicated.

And then she heard the sound of water flowing from the faucet in the kitchen.

Okay, well, a) some strange intruder has decided to delight in the workings of her plumbing system, b) some strange psychological intruder has decided to delight in the workings of her imagination, or c) Michael's still here.

Sara sincerely hoped the answer was b.

She took a few more steps and slowly rounded the corner to see a rather cheery-looking Michael filling up a coffee pot in her kitchen.

He looked up at her and gave her a smile.

"Merry Christmas, Sara."

I must look awful she thought to herself. She hadn't even brushed her hair.

She smiled weakly.

"So, um, how badly did I embarrass myself?"

Michael smiled before answering,

"Believe me, I've seen people act worse sober."

"Where did you sleep?"

"I slept on your couch, used your blanket, hope you don't mind."

Sara shook her head.

"Why did you stay with me? Why did you actually come over on Christmas eve anyways?"

"I wanted to make sure you were okay, why the interrogation?"

That silenced Sara for a moment. Michael handed her a cup of coffee, and then poured himself one. He watched her silently as she took a sip. He decided not to bring up her little crying episode that, despite all his control, scared the hell out of him. Either she didn't remember, or she did and didn't want to talk about it. Not that it mattered, but it was the first time he'd really seen her act like she wasn't completely in control of her emotions. Sara always struck him as the type of person that was capable of controlling all visible emotion and thought, but underneath was a collection of unseen feelings ready to burst. Maybe the reason he recognized this in Sara was because he knew this trait was something in him as well.

During all this thought, Michael hadn't noticed that Sara was staring intently right back at him, as he had been staring at her. Once she realized he had come out of his weird little daze and that she'd been caught looking, she blushed and set her coffee cup down.

"Well, um, I told my father I would meet him today, so…"

Michael nodded his head. He took a few steps to collect his jacket and turned to her.

"Michael, really, I don't know how to thank you, I'm sort of embarrassed about this whole thing, and I hope I didn't ruin all your plans for Christmas, I'm sure this is the last thing you wanted to be doing this morning—"

"It's fine, you know you can call me whenever you need something."

"Yeah," she breathed, "okay."

Michael gave her a final nod goodbye and walked through her living room and out the door.

Sara breathed a heavy sigh of relief she didn't know she was holding in as she turned towards the bathroom.

She stepped into the shower and let the cold water wash over her until it became so cold it made her head hurt. She switched the temperature to hot and ran her fingers through her hair.

Michael had certainly proved himself to be a gentleman. Not that she ever thought otherwise. But, she had been severely drunk and he hadn't done one thing to her, which was more than she could say for most men she knew. He just seemed so damn natural in her apartment, in her kitchen, making a pot of coffee in the morning. He was making it "very" difficult for her to keep to her whole wanting and needing theory. But she would be out of here in a week, so she was sure that once Michael was more than, how many miles did he say? 10? God, that seemed so close. Well, she was sure once Michael was more than 10 miles away, she would be able to move on with her life and focus on her new job at the clinic, and maybe, if she had any luck left, she wouldn't fall in love with a patient this time.