When she woke up, the first thing Roseanne saw was the soft glow of a night lamp perched atop a gleaming bedside table.
The light was gentle but even that felt too bright for her throbbing head. A sharp, relentless ache pulsed behind her eyes as if she had been struck by a truck. Dizzy and nauseous, she squeezed her eyes shut again, breathing through the rolling waves of discomfort.
Next time, she promised herself, she would never touch alcohol—or at least not as much—and she would definitely avoid falling under Imogen's infectious cheer. That woman had a way of making another round sound like the best idea in the world.
Now, Roseanne could only groan at her own lack of willpower. Ermias had warned her: Imogen had a dangerous, irresistible tendency toward excess.
It took several minutes before she managed to regain some sense of balance. With slow, careful movements, Roseanne forced her eyes open again and finally took in her surroundings.
