Rock Bottom

by Emily Goodwin

  “Oh no. How will I ever survive?” I roll my eyes.

  Dean’s smirk turns into a smile. “Did your survival class cover how to build an igloo?”

  “As a matter of fact, it did,” I snap, though by “cover” I mean we were given a piece of paper that I more or less glanced over.

  “Well, you have my number. When the power goes out—which it always does after a snowstorm—call me.” His phone chirps with a text and he digs it out of his jacket pocket, grinning at whatever someone texted.

  I’m sure it’s a woman, fawning all over his macho-man offer to keep them warm during a snowstorm. I blink and the image of us, naked on the couch while a fire crackles and pops in the hearth, flashes through my mind. My body reacts on its own accord, and I have to work hard to keep my resolve from crumbling and accepting his offer to ride out the storm together.

  He lives closer to the hospital than I do. I could always run and grab a toothbrush and have what I need to get up in the morning and go into work.

  All it will do is lead to more disappointment.

  “Don’t hold your breath,” I huff and inch my cart forward. “I’ve been just fine on my own this far. I’m sure I’ll survive.”

  “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s better to be safe than sorry? I proved last time I can take care of you in more ways than one during a power outage, didn’t I?”

  I roll my eyes. “Laying it on a little thick there, aren’t you?”

  “Only because you’re so stubborn.”

  My fingers tighten around the cart again. “We had our fun, Dean, but now it’s time for us both to move on. I know I’m hard to get over, but you’ve got to let me go.”

  He stares at me for a good few seconds and then laughs. “But how can I when I know how good it feels to have you in my bed?”

  My eyes widen and the older couple whose cart is full of bread and milk slows, giving Dean a dirty look. Witty comebacks have never been my forte, and I usually think of the perfect thing to say hours—or even days—after the moment has come and gone.

  So instead, I do what I do best, and just stare at Dean in awkward silence, lips parted as my brain turns like a rusty wheel as I try to come up with a response.

  “That’s what I thought.” He flashes a cock grin and takes a step back. “I’ll keep my phone by me,” he says with a wink. “Just in case.”

  And then he turns and walks away.

  Never in my life have I been so turned on and so irritated by someone at the same time. Damn you, Dean Dawson.

  “Perfect.” I bring my bowl of soup into my lap and turn on the TV. I’ve been home from the store for a while now, and plugged in my laptop and phone, just in case. I even took a quick shower and turned on the dishwasher while it was only half full.

  If the power goes out, I’m ready. Take that, Dean. I shake my head at my own thoughts and carefully crumble saltine crackers into my soup. The wind picks up, blowing icy snow against the glass. I’m already dreading the drive into work tomorrow morning.

  Eastwood already closed down all of the schools, but there’s no closing down the hospital. As long as the roads are open, I’m expected to go in. And even when the roads aren’t open, I’m expected to go in. Though Anne seems much more reasonable than my last unit manager.

  If I were at Dean’s, my drive to the hospital would have been cut in half. Maybe I should go over there. You know…for safety reasons.

  “Stop it,” I tell myself and go back to my soup and Damon Salvator. I’ve already watched the entire series in full three times now, but The Vampire Diaries is one of those shows I can watch over and over again.

  Along with Charmed and True Blood. Yeah, there’s a theme going on, and I might still harbor some hurt feelings over never getting my letter to Hogwarts. Though I’m still holding out hope that I’ll move into an old Victorian house and discover my powers as a witch.

  The lights start flickering an hour or so later, and I take it as my cue to go to bed. I rinse out my soup bowl and fill up an extra bowl of water for Figaro. Then I pop two melatonin pills and climb into bed. I like to sleep in the pitch black, but have to leave the hall light on, which is weird, I know.

  But that’s what my sleep mask is for. I can whip it off if I think an intruder is in the house. I know…it doesn’t make sense. It’s not like being able to see the dark figure in the hall would make them run away. It’s been my routine since college, which was my first experience being away from home for a long period of time.

  I crank up the electric blanket and settle down into the pillows, telling Alexa to turn on my sleep sounds app. I had a long, busy day, and I should be tired. Yet my mind drifts back to Dean and that stupid sexy smirk. I push all thoughts of him out of mind and try to trick my brain into having a wonderful dream about Henry Cavill being my boyfriend and coming home to Silver Ridge with me, showing everyone who laughed and told me I’d never find a man that I can and did find an exceptional one.

  But my go-to fantasy fails me, and I’m in that half-awake, half-asleep state, twilight dreaming about going home with a hot guy on my arm. Surprise, surprise, that guy is Dean.

  Chapter 21

  Dean

  I hit send and then notice a typo in my email. Dammit. Oh well. It’s not the first and won’t be the last. I let out a breath and reach for the stack of papers on the table next to me. It’s early in the morning and the roads are shit, and there is a police order to stay home unless necessary. While I could argue that our job is necessary, I’m not risking anyone’s life just to get in a few hours of work.

  I got up early just to start calling the guys on our crew, telling them to wait an hour or two and see how things are. The plows have been out all night, and I hear one rumble down the street in front of the house.

  I’ve been up since dawn and should go back to bed, but as soon as I lie down and close my eyes, I see her face.

  Hear her voice.

  Taste her on my lips.

  I can’t remember the last time I felt this way about anyone—unable to get them out of my head. Except I do, and I don’t want to admit it to myself. Because those feelings led to a proposal, a marriage, and a house.

  All built on fucking lies.

  I flip a page in the estimate I’m going over before sending to a client and have to read everything twice. I struggled with obsessive thoughts after the divorce, replaying everything in my mind and putting the blame on myself.

  This, though…this is different. Because Rory is different, and just thinking about her looking all flustered while trying to keep her shit together makes me smile.

  Which is fucking stupid.

  It takes me twice as long to finish proofing the estimate. Then I plug everything into a spreadsheet to send to the client, who should be pleasantly surprised their dream house is not only within budget, but fifteen grand under what I initially quoted them.

  Needing more coffee, I get up, pour myself a cup, and then go look outside. Mrs. Rogers, my neighbor across the street, is struggling to shovel her driveway by hand. We got a good six inches of snow last night, mixed with some icy rain, making the snow heavy as shit.

  Mrs. Rogers is in her sixties, whose husband left her for a younger woman several years ago. She’s into all that new-age stuff and always wears a million gemstones and bangles around her wrists, and has told me more than once my chakras need to be cleared, whatever that means.

  I feel an unspoken kinship to her, knowing what it’s like to have the rug pulled out from under you. I suck down half my coffee and then hurry to put on the proper gear to go into the garage, firing up my snowblower.

  I make a beeline for her house, plowing a path down my own driveway and through the piles of snow along the curb from the plow going by. Mrs. Rogers stops shoveling and waves to me, shouting something I can’t hear over the sound of the snowblower.

  I kill the engine on the plow so we can talk.

  “I got this,” I tell her. “Go in and get warm.”

&nbs
p; “Oh, honey, you are a lifesaver. This damp air is making my arthritis flare up. You sure you don’t mind?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I did.” I motion toward her house. “Watch for ice on your way in. It’s slippery out here.”

  “You’re telling me.” She smiles once more and goes back inside. I clear all the snow from her driveway and then go back across the street to do my own driveway. I’m sweating by the time I go in, and right as I’m about to go up and shower, the doorbell rings.

  It’s Mrs. Rogers, and she’s holding a plate of cinnamon rolls.

  “This is the least I could do,” she tells me.

  “They smell delicious. Thank you.”

  “Oh, thank you, honey. It would have taken me all day to shovel that driveway.”

  “Like I told you last winter, don’t worry about it. I’ll get it for you.”

  “You’re a good guy, Dean,” she says. “You’re going to make a lady very lucky one day.”

  “Nah,” I say as I wave my hand in the air, dismissing her comment.

  “Why not? You don’t like the ladies anymore? I haven’t seen cars in your driveway lately.”

  That’s because I haven’t brought anyone home since Rory. And I’m not sure what to think about her taking notice of my escapades. “I still like them. But the whole settling down thing didn’t work for me the first time around.”

  “So you’re just going to give up and quit?” She lets out a laugh. “If I gave up after my first marriage failed, I never would have met my Henry, God rest his soul.” She brings her hand to her heart and looks up. “I knew I’d never find a love like that again, but I gave it another shot and ended up with James.” She narrows her eyes, and now I’m certain she’s talking about her current ex-husband. “But he led me to Wyatt.” She raises her eyebrows. “I’m sixty-seven and still haven’t given up on love. You’re way too young and too good-looking to call it quits.”

  “I’ll…I’ll think about it.”

  “We’ve all been damaged.” She takes a step back toward the door. “Don’t let it scare you into settling.”

  I see her out, making sure she doesn’t slip on the porch steps. I’ve been given enough advice post-divorce to fill a fucking book, and usually I brush it off. I know people mean well, but it annoys me regardless. Though for some reason, Mrs. Rogers’s words are hitting me hard.

  It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. But before, I didn’t know Rory.

  My phone buzzes with a text, and then another, and another. I don’t have to look to know the texts are coming from one of the two group messages I’ve been a part of for years. The most active group text is with my brothers, Archer included.

  I pick up the phone and see the messages are coming from group number two, which also includes my brothers, but also Quinn and Mom.

  Quinn: Do you guys want to come here for dinner tomorrow? Like 6ish? I’m ordering pizza.

  Logan: We’ll be there. Neither Owen or I are working this Friday.

  Weston: Us too, but I’m in the station until 6.

  Quinn: We’ll wait until you’re here to eat.

  Owen: I guess I have to come since I can’t pretend to be working now.

  Mom: Owen, be nice. And yes, Quinn, we’ll be there. We’re picking up Nana.

  Logan: Warn Archer not to come in the house with his lab coat on again.

  Owen: I think he does it on purpose. He likes getting hit on by Nana

  Quinn: He told me he finds it flattering LOL but don’t tell him I told you!

  Owen sends a photo of a shirtless man listening to an old woman’s heart with a stethoscope.

  Me: It’s disturbing how fast you were able to find that exact image.

  Logan: He has them saved on his phone “for every occasion”

  Owen: Always gotta be prepared!

  Mom: This is not what I imagined being a mom of grown boys would be like

  Quinn: Don’t worry, you have me.

  She sends an angel emoji and Mom responds with a bunch of pink hearts.

  Weston: Some of us have actual work to do.

  Owen has something saved for that too and sends an “officer buzzkill” meme in two seconds flat.

  Mom: I’m putting my phone down now. Behave yourselves, and I’ll see you all tomorrow.

  The workday is technically over, but I’m still at the office. Dad is here somewhere as well, wrapping up a meeting with a client that got pushed from this morning. He called this build his “last official” project, but he said that about the other two “last” projects we took on.

  As far as working with family goes, this hasn’t been bad. Dad made sure not to give me any handouts, and I worked my way up to where I am now. Rubbing my forehead, I go back to another estimate I’m putting together and do my best not to think of Rory.

  Fucking Mrs. Rogers and her hippy advice has been weighing on me all day. We’re all damaged. It’s so simple yet something I forget. I’m not the only one who’s been screwed over, who’s been burned by love.

  Who’s to say Rory hasn’t? Though anyone who’d screw her over would be a complete idiot.

  Maybe…maybe one date wouldn’t be so bad.

  I pick up my phone again, exit out of the group text and open up a new text to Rory. I don’t give myself time to hesitate.

  Me: Did you survive the blizzard?

  She doesn’t answer right away, and I go back to work, assuming she’s still at work as well. I finish the estimate and am putting my paperwork in the filing cabinet when she texts me back.

  Rory: I just barely survived. I was worried I was going to have to kill the meatiest person on my floor and feast on their flesh so I wouldn’t starve once my provisions were gone.

  I laugh, able to see the sarcasm on her face.

  Me: I’m glad you made it. Things got dicey there for a while. The power flickered a couple times here.

  Rory: I got you beat. It flickered a FEW times here. Everyone knows a few is more than a couple.

  Me: Good point. I’m glad you survived.

  Rory: Me too. Freezing to death in this little apartment is such a boring way to go.

  Me: And since you did survive and are most likely nearly out of food…do you want to grab dinner tonight?

  I look at the screen, waiting for her to say something—anything. Those little dots show up, and this time they don’t disappear. She’s just taking a long-ass time to reply, or is deleting and rewriting most of what she’s written. Finally, she replies.

  Rory: I had a really long day at work. I just want to go home.

  Me: Tomorrow?

  Shit. Tomorrow is dinner at Quinn’s house. Oh well. She’d be all too happy to know I was taking Rory out on a proper date. This time, the little dots come and go four times before I hear back from her.

  Rory: I don’t think that’s a good idea. Like I said, we had our fun.

  I let out a sigh and roll my eyes. And this is why I don’t even bother.

  Chapter 22

  Dean

  “My money is on another baby.” Logan adjusts Henry in the baby carrier, careful not to wake the sleeping baby. We’re all at Quinn and Archer’s, and were surprised to see Archer’s parents and Bobby here as well. Quinn brushed it off, saying the kids asked to have everyone over, but by the way Emma and Arya are glued to some princess pony show on TV, I don’t think that’s the real reason.

  “Four kids.” Charlie shakes her head. “I don’t know how Quinn hasn’t lost her mind. One is enough for us—for now,” she adds quickly. “I don’t want to think about having another until Olivia is two. She takes after her dad and is such a troublemaker. A cute troublemaker, at least.”

  “I like knocking you up.” Owen wraps his arm around Charlie and kisses her neck. Charlie pushes him away, laughing.

  “We’re done with two,” Danielle says, looking at their youngest. “I already have a feeling this one is going to be a handful.”

  Feeling out of place in this conversation, I go into the ki
tchen to get something to eat and see Bobby standing at the counter. There’s an open bottle of wine next to the fridge, left out by someone who wasn’t thinking. Bobby has told us he doesn’t want us to stop drinking when he’s over. We can enjoy alcohol responsibly and shouldn’t punish ourselves.

  “Hey,” I say, coming up behind him. “Want me to take that?”

  Bobby pulls his sobriety chip out of his pocket and flips it around in his fingers. “No. I’m…I’m good.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I think we all know why we’re here, and another niece or nephew is good motivation. I…I missed the newborn stage with the other three. I’m determined to be there for the whole thing this time.”

  I clap him on the back. “You will be.”

  The front door opens and closes, and Quinn calls us all to eat now that Weston is here. It’s pure chaos getting all the kids to sit at the little table Quinn set up next to the formal dining room table, and two pieces of pizza are dropped, and one cup of milk is spilled.

  Finally, we’re all settled, and everyone digs into their food, looking at Quinn and Archer between bites, waiting for them to share their news. Quinn looks ragged again, cheeks pale with dark circles under her eyes. She’s not eating, which is a dead giveaway that she’s pregnant again.

  “When are you due?” Owen asks, reaching for his drink. Charlie elbows him. “Oh, come on. Why else are we all here? Unless you’re dying or something.” He actually looks worried. “You’re not dying, are you?”

  “I’m not dying,” Quinn quips. Archer takes her hand and smiles. “And yes, we are expecting again.”

  Archer takes a folded-up ultrasound photo from his pocket and Mom lets out a shriek, jumping up and racing around to hug Quinn.

  “Twins! Oh my goodness, you’re having twins!”

  “We are,” Archer answer, since Quinn is being smothered by our mother. “It was quite the surprise. They’re not identical,” he adds, knowing we’re all wondering.

  “These are our last,” Quinn assures everyone with a laugh. “We wanted four but got a bonus baby.”