by Laura Drake
“Give me that phone, Granny,” Lizzy demanded.
The loud bang in his ears said that Irene hung up a second time.
He tiptoed to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich, carried it to the living room, and turned on the television. The weatherman said that they’d have thunderstorms through the night and most of the day on Monday. He watched two episodes of Family Feud and a couple of reruns of NCIS, but his mind kept running in circles and Allie Logan was right in the middle of all of it.
Shooter went to the door and whined so he let him out for his evening run and checked the truck one more time. The front end was smashed up, but it didn’t look like it would leak if it rained. Just in case there was something important in the cab, he took a look. The only thing in there was a candy wrapper on the floor, the lid to the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, which was still lying on the ground with golden liquid in it, and Allie’s purse.
He slung her purse over his shoulder and picked up the lid, recapped the liquor bottle, and carried both into the house. “No need to waste good Jack.”
Shooter finished his business and dashed into the house, almost tripping Blake on his way to the kitchen.
“You don’t have to break my leg. I wouldn’t forget your midnight snack.”
Shooter sat up on his hind legs and begged.
“Okay, you rascal.” Blake laughed. “You get two pieces of bologna for that trick. But when you’re too fat to run this spring, it won’t be my fault.”
Allie’s eyes popped open and then snapped shut again as she grabbed her head and rolled up into a ball. Her mouth was dry and tasted like a dirty bathroom smelled. She tried to swallow but gagged instead. Clamping a hand over her mouth, she tried to get up and rush to the bathroom, but knew she wouldn’t make it. She grabbed the trash can beside her bed and dry-heaved until her sides ached, but nothing came up.
She’d never had the flu like this before and she damn sure did not have time for it now. She had to paint Blake’s bedroom and then texture the ceiling in the hall and living room. She set the trash can back on the floor and fell back on her bed.
Shooter bounded across the floor and onto the mattress, started at her chin and slurped all the way to her forehead, his dog food breath causing her to gag again. How in the devil did Blake’s dog get in her house and to her bedroom?
She pushed him away and opened her eyes slowly, shielding them with her hand against the light pouring in the window. Then a streak of lightning lit up the sky, followed quickly by a boom of thunder that made Shooter drop and shove his head under the covers.
“God, that’s loud.” She moved her hands to her ears. “Oh. My. God. I’m in Blake’s bed. How did I get here and what have I done?”
“Truth or a pretty princess story?” Blake asked.
Her chest tightened at how sexy he was, standing there like a mythical god with pajama pants riding low on his hips, a wife beater shirt stretched out across his muscular chest, and barefoot. She told herself that men did not have sexy feet but when she looked back at his, they really were. His hair was tousled like he’d gotten out of bed after a night of wild sex. Oh, God, did they have sex?
“Truth?” She pulled herself up and propped her back against the pillows.
“Don’t even want a little bit of the pretty story?” he asked. “I worked one up for you about a princess who was poisoned by her wicked sister who was going to marry a preacher.” He grinned.
The laugh made it past her chest and partially out of her mouth before it stopped and she grabbed her head again. “Just the truth.”
“You got drunker than a rabid skunk, drove your truck over here, and evidently you didn’t want to walk across the yard so you parked right up next to the porch, and passed out cold in my arms. So I put you to bed, and now it’s time to get rid of the hangover.” He poured honey from a cute little bear-shaped bottle into a spoon and said, “Open your mouth.”
She clamped her mouth shut and mumbled. “Will it make my headache stop?”
“It’s the first step. Open up.” He started toward her mouth and she obeyed. She didn’t care if it was arsenic, as long as it made the throbbing between her eyes stop without killing her.
“Don’t move. Next step is coming up.”
Shooter peeked out from under the covers.
She tucked her chin down and glared at him. “If it’s gravy, you can have it all. I’ll gag on gravy this morning. Just thinking about it makes my stomach churn.”
“It’s not gravy. It’s really strong black coffee and two aspirin. This is a four-step program, but it works.” Blake carried in two cups of steaming hot coffee.
He handed her two aspirin, his fingertips tickling the palm of her hand. She tossed them into her mouth and swallowed them with the first sip of coffee. He was right about it being strong. It could melt enamel off her teeth if she held it in her mouth too long.
“Where did you get the liquor?” Blake asked.
Allie shut her eyes tightly. “Granny hides things. I found it in her closet when I was straightening her shoes. Where is it?”
“About half of the Jack is gone and maybe a third of the tequila.”
She groaned. “I’ve never been drunk and believe me I won’t be again. What did I say or do.”
“We had a great talk and cleared up that shit about you saying you didn’t care and then you did some real good snoring.”
She knew exactly how her grandmother felt because she couldn’t remember a damn thing about a talk of any kind. She remembered finding all sorts of things in the closet and drinking from the two bottles. Then there was an argument with Lizzy in the foyer. And then she was going to talk to Nadine but nothing about a talk with Blake came to mind.
“We did?” She opened one eye.
Blake grinned. “Of course we did. You drink the rest of that and don’t move. I’ll bring the third dose back in a few minutes.”
As he left the room, a clear memory flashed and both eyes opened wide. “Oh, no! I wrecked my truck!” She set the coffee on the floor and threw her head back against the pillows with a groan as her stomach did a flip-flop and the memory of her truck rammed into the house came clear. “Plowed right into the house and the horn was so loud.”
Shooter moved over and laid his head in her lap. She propped up enough to continue to sip her coffee with one hand and scratch his ears with the other.
“Scrambled eggs and toast.” Blake returned carrying a plate of food.
She couldn’t eat eggs. Lord have mercy! Was he trying to kill her? “I can’t eat eggs. My stomach can’t handle them. I’ll try a few bites of the toast.”
Blake picked up the fork. “No, ma’am. You will eat every bite of the eggs. There’s only two. Big men like Toby or me, well, we have to eat four.”
“I can feed myself,” she protested.
“You handle the coffee. I’ll do the feeding.” He grinned.
Sensual. Sexy. Hot.
Those words came to Allie and they had nothing to do with the eggs that Blake kept putting into her mouth. There was something sensual and sexy about a man feeding her breakfast in bed, even if it was a hangover cure. Not once in the two years she’d been married to Riley had he ever brought her breakfast in bed or fed her. But she didn’t want to think about Riley; she wanted to focus on the man feeding her the hangover cure.
“No!” she said.
He put another bite into her mouth. “No, what?”
She swallowed quickly. “We are fighting. You shouldn’t be nice to me.”
“We got all that settled last night,” he said.
“I don’t remember it and until I remember it’s not settled. Four steps? What’s the last one?” she asked.
“A banana and then a warm shower,” he said. “Don’t snarl your pretty nose. Trust me! It works.”
She blinked several times. “How did you figure all this out?”
“Internet,” he said. “After a few hangovers I did some research and found a combination of
cures that works. You plannin’ on usin’ it real often?”
She shook her head very slowly. “I like a beer. I even like a shot of Jack. I’m not so much into tequila, but it was there and I didn’t want it to feel left out. But until right now I’ve never been drunk and it isn’t ever happening again.”
He put the last bite into her mouth and kissed her on the forehead. “Good girl. Now for the final step, and then you can take a shower. There’s an extra toothbrush in the cabinet. Still in the bubble pack. You’ll be ready for it after you shower. I’ll get another pot of coffee going while you do that.”
Her eyes fixed on his fine-looking butt under those loose pajama pants as he left the room again. Surely she wasn’t imagining or hadn’t merely dreamed that they’d had sex on this very mattress. She drew her eyebrows down and flinched when that brought another pang between her eyes. What was today? Had she been there a day? A week?
Shooter hopped off the mattress and made his way up the hallway, probably to stretch out in front of the fireplace since the lightning and thunder had stopped. Was that an omen? The storm was over and it was time for her to go home and face the music from her family, and why was it thundering at this time of year? There was snow on the ground for heaven’s sake.
She would eat the damn banana and she’d have a shower and gladly brush her teeth, but then she and Blake were going to have a talk. And this time she would remember every word, every nuance, and every expression on his face.
“Every single damn word,” she mumbled.
“Word about what?” he asked. “It’s snowing again and you don’t feel much like texturing a ceiling, so I vote we cuddle up on the sofa and spend the day together. We can turn off our cell phones and pretend we’re stranded on a desert island.”
“How long have I been here?” she asked.
“Since late last evening. Today is Monday.”
Had they cleared things up? If not, then why was he being so nice? “I’ve always wanted to get lost on an island. Hand me that banana and get the canoe ready for us to row to the island.”
Did she say that out loud? Good lord! What was the matter with her? They still had to clear a hell of a lot of things up before she cuddled up with him on the sofa all day.
He tossed it toward her and she caught it with both hands. “It’s working. My headache isn’t as bad.”
“I’m the hangover guru. Stick with me and I’ll take care of you,” he said.
“Sounds to me like you’re a guy who’s used that line many times,” she said, grabbing her aching head.
“Maybe I should write country music about curing hangovers.” He extended his hand and helped her off the mattress. “Finish the banana on the way to the shower. Everything is laid out and ready for you.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Hot water washed away more of the headache, but it didn’t do much to take away the guilt. What had she been thinking? She’d been put in charge of her grandmother for the afternoon and she’d failed…again.
Alora Raine Logan was a failure and she admitted it. Strip stark naked, standing under the shower spray on the Lucky Penny, which was every bit as appropriate as an AA meeting for alcoholics. She had failed in her marriage—couldn’t hold Riley’s interest. Failed as a daughter—proved she couldn’t be trusted. Failed as a sister—weekends were the only time Lizzy got to spend with Mitch.
“Sorry sumbitch that Mitch is, he’s her sumbitch.” Allie wiped at the tears streaming down her cheeks.
She slid down into the bathtub and curled up in a tight little ball, sobbing as the hot water streamed over her body. She didn’t hear the little plastic rings holding the shower curtain slide across the rod. She had no idea anyone was in the bathroom until Blake was in the tub with her. Still dressed in pajama pants and a knit shirt, he sat down behind her and gathered her into his arms. One minute she was sitting on the hard porcelain of an old bathtub, the next she was curled up in his lap, her cheek against his chest.
She started to say something, but he put a finger over her lips.
“The depression is the alcohol talking, not Allie Logan. Whatever happened is water under the bridge. Burn the damn bridge and forget the past,” he whispered.
His words were so poetic that they brought on a fresh batch of tears. She didn’t care if it was just another line he’d used. Didn’t care…they were the words that had started all this to begin with.
“I do care,” she said between sobs.
“About what?” He brushed strands of wet hair from her face.
She took several seconds to get her thoughts together. “I care about Lizzy and Mama and Granny. I don’t care if you are telling me pretty words that you’ve told lots of women before me. I don’t care about your past. I’ll burn those bridges for you if you’ll hand me a stick of firewood and a match.”
How he managed to stand up in a slippery, wet tub with her in his arms, then step out without falling, was a miracle. But suddenly, she found herself wrapped in that brand-new robe he’d talked about and her hand was in his, letting him lead her to the living room. He tossed a quilt over the sofa and motioned for her to sit. She obeyed without arguing and he carefully brought the ends of the quilt up around her legs.
“Don’t go away.” He smiled.
Leaving wet footprints on the floor and dripping water as he disappeared into his bedroom, he whistled a tune that she recognized as “Honey Bee” by Blake Shelton. In a few minutes he returned, dressed in gray sweat bottoms and a long-sleeved thermal shirt. He carried a towel in one hand and a hairbrush in the other.
“Slide forward about a foot,” he said.
When she did, he settled in behind her, one long muscular leg on each side of her body. He towel-dried her hair and then massaged her scalp with his fingertips. Holy smoking shit! Her body felt like a rag doll and yet every nerve was on high alert, wanting more, begging for his wonderful hands.
“Mmmm,” she murmured.
“Is it making it better?” he drawled.
He started brushing her hair and a whole new set of emotions surfaced. She was afraid to move an inch for fear she’d find out this was all a dream and she would wake up with that grinding hangover, or worse yet, in her lonely bed at home.
His hands grazed her cheeks as he pulled her damp hair back to run the brush through it. Then he leaned forward and kissed her softly on the side of her neck.
“We were going to talk,” she whispered.
“We are talkin’, darlin’. We’ll use words when necessary,” he said softly.
No one had ever cared enough about Allie to sit in a tub with her when she was crying or brush her hair, much less talk to her without using words. Sitting there with her eyes shut, feeling Blake’s long legs against her body and what had to be an erection pressing against her back, she couldn’t help but wonder if the third time was the charm. First there was Granny’s Walter. Then there was Katy’s Ray. And now there was Blake, who was the third. If it was a real fairy tale, the prince would come along and win the princess.
“Now that’s as far-fetched as anything can be,” she murmured to herself.
“What?” he asked.
She clamped a hand over her mouth. “Did I say that out loud?”
“You did. Want to explain?” he asked.
She shook her head and leaned back so she could look up into his eyes. “Do you have your contacts in place?”
“No, ma’am, and I’m blind without them or my glasses so my hands are seeing for me this morning. They tell me that you are beautiful beyond words.” He smiled.
“And when do you wear glasses? After a Friday night of bar hopping?”
He reached behind him to the end table and put his glasses on. “Or on a nice rainy day so I can see you better. I don’t like them but they come in handy when my allergies act up.”
“I like them on you. They make your eyes even greener.”
“Then I’ll throw away my contacts and wear them every day just for you,”
Blake said sincerely.
In all the fairy tales she’d read or that Granny had read to her in her youth, the prince had never worn glasses or been nearsighted. This had to be reality.
“You don’t have to do that, Blake. Do you always believe what your hands say?” she teased.
“Not always but my heart never lies to me and it’s in agreement with my hands,” he whispered.
“Oh!”
He stopped and kissed her hair. “I’m sorry. Did I hit a tangle?”
“No, I should call Mama and Lizzy. It’s a wonder they haven’t called out the militia already,” she said.
He pulled the brush to the end of her dark hair and then laid it on the end table. “I talked to Lizzy last night and your mother this morning. They know where you are, that you are alive, and that I’ll bring you home sometime later.”
“I can drive myself home. I drove over here drunk, so I reckon I can get back when I’m sober,” she said.
“Not in that truck out there with the front end caved in. You’re lucky that you didn’t hurt yourself, but then God protects drunks and fools,” he said with a chuckle.
She crawled off the sofa and pulled the robe tightly across her bare breasts. “I was hoping that part was a dream. Did I really wreck my truck?”
“You did, darlin’,” he answered. “Look out the window. Is that the one you bought when you were sixteen?”
When she peeked through the blinds, she expected another burst of tears. She’d saved money from working with her dad to buy that truck and now it was totaled. Sure, she could probably find used parts and have someone fix the thing, but was it worth it? Was this an omen that she should let go of all the past?
“I’m sorry.” Blake’s arms circled her waist and he buried his face in her hair. “I’m sure it means a lot to you, but it will take a fortune to fix it.”
“Thank God the folks who built Audrey’s and this house as well put them on a good solid foundation.” She leaned back against his chest. “It’s time to say good-bye to that truck and send her off to that great junkyard in the sky.”