My Secret Husband Is My Cold Boss novel Chapter 79

A drunk brain couldn't process complex instructions; it only picked up on simple keywords.

"Water, hold, good, don't fall..."

"Got it!" Wendy nodded obediently, tightening her grip around his neck.

"Holding tight!"

Thank God he managed to brace his hand against the mattress in time, or he would have crushed her completely.

Sampson let out a helpless, muffled chuckle.

With their faces mere inches apart, Wendy could feel the distinct heat of her own breath rebounding against him.

She blinked, reached up to touch her own cheek, and frowned.

"Sampson, my face is burning. Do I have a fever?"

"You don't."

Wendy didn't believe him.

She grabbed his hand and pressed it flat against her forehead.

"...I don't?"

His large hand covered most of her forehead, leaving only her dark, lucid eyes visible as she stared up at him in quiet focus.

Sampson used the back of his hand to check. "You don't."

Wendy frowned in confusion, lowering her gaze. "Then why are your hands so cold?"

With their hands pressed together, his fingertips felt icy against hers. The coolness against her flushed skin was incredibly soothing.

Sampson's tone was laced with exasperation, though he kept his voice soft and patient. "Because you're drunk."

"Am I?"

Wendy dropped her head, pondering this for a moment.

After a long pause, she let out a dramatic sigh and scoffed. "I think you're just taking my temperature wrong."

"Bend down a little."

She curled her finger, beckoning him.

Sampson didn't move.

Wendy shot him a deeply mournful glare.

Defeated, Sampson sighed and obliged her command.

"...Lower."

"...Low enough for me to reach."

No matter how he angled himself, he couldn't meet her exact criteria. Left with no choice, Sampson finally half-knelt by the bed, resting one hand on the mattress for support.

Taking care of his drunken wife was his responsibility.

"No more drinking for you."

-

The next morning, Wendy was jarred awake by her alarm.

She vaguely realized she was lying in bed.

She had gone drinking, fallen asleep in the car, and Sampson had helped her inside.

She remembered all of that.

But trying to remember anything past that point sent a sharp spike of pain through her skull.

The hangover headache was brutal enough to be classified as a form of torture.

Wendy sighed.

She reached up to massage her temples.

As she lifted her hand—

The texture of the bedsheets felt wrong today!

Because she had sensitive skin, all her bed linens were purely cotton. But the fabric crumpled in her hand right now was definitely not cotton!