Tequila & Tailgates (A Country Road Novel - Book 2)

by Andrea Johnston

  “Are you even listening to me, Sunshine?”

  “You know I hate that name.”

  “I do. Are you listening?”

  “Not really. I’m eating.”

  “Well, I think we should talk about a few house rules.”

  “House rules? Is this camp or something?”

  Jameson barks out a laugh and takes a long drink of his wine. I stand and go to the fridge for another beer, taking the one I have with me. Finishing off the beer Jameson had for me, I toss it in the garbage before popping the top to a fresh bottle.

  When I get back to the table, he’s placed another slice of pizza on my plate. Freaking manners. Stupid good guy.

  “Thanks for the slice,” I comment and he responds with a nod. “So, these camp rules.”

  “House. I don’t mean rules like real rules but we’re adults and should maybe set some guidelines so we aren’t in each other’s way.”

  Oh, he means when he brings women home. “Oh, you mean you don’t want me in the way when you’re bringing a bunch of ho-bags home with you. Got it. No problem, I have noise cancelling headphones,” I spew, suddenly losing my appetite.

  “Well, I do mean when either of us brings someone home. But maybe we could make the first rule is you not calling the women I may bring home ho-bags or any other derogatory name.”

  Eye roll. It’s the only response I can give him. He has a point, it is derogatory. I don’t mean anything against those ladies. I’m sure they’re perfectly nice girls. Dumb, though, if they think Jameson is going to give them a forever. I suppose that’s the thing, they aren’t. Maybe they can teach me a thing or two.

  “Fine. What else? A chore chart? Scheduled laundry time?”

  “Jesus, Ashton. What is your problem? Why are you being such a snarky bitch?”

  I gasp at not only his words but the increased volume and tone of their delivery. My eyes go wide and, for once, I have no verbal response. Instead I observe a plethora of emotions skirt across his face. Frustration, realization, regret, and ultimately surrender. His elbows settle on the table, head hung in defeat. Exhaling loudly, and frankly a little dramatically, while excessively running his hands through his hair, he is mumbling something I can’t quite make out.

  His hair is a little on the longer side, tuggable. Yes, his hair is tuggable length. Stop it, Ashton. Do not think of tugging on his hair. Too late.

  “I’m sorry for yelling. But, fuck, you infuriate me, woman. Why are you so angry with me?”

  My only response is my signature eyebrow raise – one eyebrow – as I stand and take my plate into the kitchen, discarding the lonely piece of pizza in the trash. Washing my plate, I allow the numerous answers to his question bounce around in my head. The truth is, I’m not angry; I’m just protecting myself.

  I feel his presence in the room before he speaks. This is the effect Jameson has on me. The effect he’s always had. And, the reason I put up a wall of sarcasm and anger. It’s the only way I know how to react without crying and asking him why he left me. Why he made love to me and filled my heart more than I ever expected, only to leave me and never mention it again.

  “Look, Ash, we’ve got to get past this tension and bullshit that’s been going on the last few years. I don’t know exactly why you’re angry with me, and frankly I don’t give a shit at this point. There is a massive tree laying across your parents’ house and you have nowhere to go. This may not be the most ideal of circumstances but it is what it is.”

  He’s right. I rinse my plate and set it in the dish drainer as I grab a hand towel and face him. Fuck me. Why is he so damn hot? Leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, pulling his already snug T-shirt across his very well-defined arms. I allow myself one single glimpse at his body. Specifically, his arms. Arms that I know are graced with an intricate and beautiful tattoo. He’s really working this bad boy persona thing. I digress.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” The resignation in my voice makes him chuckle a little. “I appreciate you letting me stay here. I guess I’m just tired and feel like a big loser because at the end of the day the only person that can offer me help is my brother’s best friend and the only person in this town I can’t seem to get along with.”

  “Not true. I think you and I get along better than, say, you and Felicity Thorne.”

  “Remington hyphen Thorne, let us not forget. And, true story. God she’s such an insufferable bitch.” I see that he’s about to comment and put my finger up to stop him. “Don’t. I’m trying to be nice, please don’t compare my bitchiness to hers. I don’t think I can handle that.”

  “Noted. Look, as far as house rules, I just wanted to go over a few things like trash day, shopping lists, and our schedules. It’s been years since I’ve had to consider someone else’s schedule and I thought maybe if we just had a calendar for important dates and schedules, that may help.”

  “Oh.” Pausing, I hate to admit he’s right, but the hell if he is. “You’re probably right. I have a hard time winding down when I get home at night so I’ll try hard to be quiet when I get … here.”

  Jameson stands up and takes a step toward me. Far too close to me. I can smell his soap, something citrus scented. Settle down, ovaries. I can’t help but watch in fascination as his hands go to my arms.

  “Hey,” he says, urging me to look at him.

  “It’s your home, even if temporarily. Ashton, we’re as close to family as people can be without being related. I care about you and don’t want you to feel like a stranger or visitor in this house. Consider this your home.”

  Before I can respond, he pulls me into a hug. My arms are stiff at my side, like two branches on a tree. God, he smells amazing.

  “Are you sniffing me?”

  “What?” I shriek, pulling away from him. “No, I surely am not!”

  “Surely am not? Whatever, you so were smelling me.”

  “For your information, I thought I had smelled that scent before. It took me a minute but I realized you smell like furniture polish. It’s okay, J, I’m sure the ladies like it just fine.”

  “Shut up. You were smelling me and I know for a fact I do not smell like furniture polish,” he declares as he turns to leave the room. After a few steps, he pauses and turns to me. “Oh, and Ash? The ladies do like it. I think you like it.”

  Before I can offer a retort, he’s walking away from me. I contemplate following him to get the last word in, but before I can even take a step, the door to his bedroom opens and closes. I hear him laughing. Asshole.

  Looking at the clock on the microwave, I note the time. Early for me since I work nights but, I suppose, for the average person that doesn’t, it is bed time. I finish cleaning up from our dinner and take a minute to inventory the contents of the fridge. If I’m going to stay here, I should be the ultimate roomie and stock the contents. Once I’ve started a shopping list, I head to the living room.

  I’ve never actually spent time here, outside of one or two times I stopped by to drop-off something my mom had for Jameson. Usually a cheesecake or potato salad. Patty Sullivan is a mom through and through, and taking care of my brother’s friends and mine just became a natural part of our lives.

  The furniture in the living room is comfortable but screams “store display.” Jameson may be great when it comes to construction, but decorating his home is another story. In the center of the room is an inviting leather couch, recliner, and a traditional mission-style set of tables on either side. The large television on the wall reminds you that this is single guy’s house and, like his truck that is lifted ten feet off the ground, this thing screams “over compensation.” I laugh at my own joke and walk over to the fireplace mantle where Jameson has a few photos in frames.

  The first to catch my attention is one of him and Ben when they were teenagers. Best friends most of their lives, this is how I remember them. Laughing and teasing each other but close like brothers. The next is a larger frame with three photos of his parents, his brother�
��s family, and one of just his niece. I tend to forget that Jameson has family outside of my own since they moved away about the same time Ben did.

  A few pictures of our group at the lake and at Country Road fill the rest of the frames. It’s the last one that catches me off-guard. It’s a picture of only me. It’s obviously one I wasn’t aware was being taken because I’m looking off in the distance with the sun behind me. I can tell by the smile that I’m laughing. If I was to guess, I’d say it was either Owen or Landon being ridiculous.

  Picking up the frame, I look around the room and don’t see a photo of anyone else by themselves other than Jameson’s niece, Hope. Why would Jameson have a photo of me on his mantle? It must be from his photography phase. He walked around with that ridiculous camera taking pictures of everything, including the trash, for what felt like months. Maybe he had a little talent, this is a great shot of me. I place the frame back on the mantle, trying to recall exactly how it was aligned with the others.

  After a little more time snooping, I mean checking things out, around the house, I finally return to my room to remove that awful bachelor bedding. Replacing Jameson’s bedding with my own, I crawl into bed. Earlier than a time I’ve been to bed in years, I lay staring at the ceiling for a while, taking inventory of where I am in life.

  Twenty-five and staying in the spare room of my brother’s best friend’s house because there is a tree currently residing across my childhood home. Where I live. Again.

  I haven’t always lived at home. A few weeks before my twenty-first birthday I moved out of the bedroom I had occupied my entire life and into an apartment I shared with a co-worker. After a few years of working and living together, Tracy gave up bartending to start a day job. Our living situation seemed to still work fine for both of us and I thought, if anything, I liked her more since I didn’t have to see her all the time.

  I was wrong. One day while I was gone conducting my big once-a-month shopping trip for groceries and essentials, she moved out. I came home to half of our furniture gone and a note from her saying she was moving to the mountains and was sorry to leave me hanging. Next to the note was five hundred dollars she hoped was enough to cover her last month’s expenses. It wasn’t. Rent alone was four hundred each. I used all my savings and worked as many shifts as possible over the next month but there was no way I could handle the place on my own. After an unsuccessful search for a roommate, I had to do what I swore I would never let happen: I moved back home.

  In the eighteen months since I’ve been home, I’ve managed to save quite a bit of money and my parents weren’t nearly as awful as I had remembered them as a teenager. Then, about eight months ago, my older brother, Ben, moved back home. Again, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. I mean, there were the weeks he was sneaking around behind my back with my best friend, but I’ve let that go. Truly. I’m happy for them. He bought an old farmhouse and they’re happy living there together while it’s under construction.

  I was inspired by Ben and decided to give living at home another year or so to save for my own home. Then, two nights ago, as my parents boarded a plane for their dream vacation to Europe, the tree we used to climb as kids crashed into our house. Specifically, my room.

  Since Jameson is a contractor, Ben called him immediately to assess the damage. Eight weeks, he said. Eight weeks of construction to repair the damage. Eight weeks of me being homeless. Since Ben and Piper are living in a construction zone themselves and, likely practicing to make me nieces and nephews, which I’d prefer not to witness, I reluctantly accepted Piper’s suggestion to stay with Jameson while the house is uninhabitable.

  The facts are what they are. I have few friends and the ones I do are happily cohabitating with their significant other or single guys living together playing video games and having burping contests. This was my best option and it just happens to be the one guy that I’m still hung up on.

  Karma.

  Bitch.

  Having a roommate has taken some getting used to. Specifically, her shit is everywhere. How many hair tie things does one girl need? Apparently, an infinite amount. She also doesn’t believe in using the dryer. There are pieces of clothing hanging in every doorway throughout the house. This morning, I took a hanger to the eye and it was less than great.

  Owning my own construction business has its perks. One of those perks is having the forethought to add a master bath when I remodeled my house. The thought of sharing a bathroom with Ashton makes my mouth go dry as I shudder at the thought. I can only imagine how many girly soaps and lotions she has. Of course, that response is instantly replaced by the idea of her coming out of the shower, wet and …. I dismiss that visual quickly.

  I made a choice years ago, that we needed to stay platonic, and I plan to hold on to that decision. While I encouraged Ben to pursue Piper and helped him set up the big moment he declared his feelings to her, that life isn’t for me. I like the uncomplicated life of a bachelor. I don’t answer to anyone and I make sure the ladies I do spend time with understand my intentions, or lack thereof. I’ve grown accustomed to my lifestyle, and while I agreed to Ashton staying with me, I should remind myself that Ashton Sullivan could very well become a complication.

  I’m in the office early this morning attempting to reconcile bank statements and tackle each of the aspects I despise about being a small business owner. My dad has been telling me for a year that I need to hire someone to run the office and delegate these responsibilities. I barely have time to do this much, I don’t know how I’d go about interviewing people for the job. Grabbing my coffee and inhaling the scent of the most recent dark roast Ashton brought home before taking a sip, I hear the door open and know it’s Owen.

  “Hey, bossman, what’s up?”

  “Bossman? Really?”

  “Well, you sign my check, so yeah. Would you rather I call you dickhead like usual?”

  “Owen, you know I hate anyone referring to me as the boss. Plus, we’re friends.”

  “I know, it’s why I do it. So, what’s up for today?”

  Owen is one of my best friends, and while I was worried at first that working together would be the end of our friendship, we’ve managed to work it out. The first few months I thought I’d kill him, or fire him, but after being offered a job my little company couldn’t afford to turn down, I opted to promote him to interim foreman instead of firing him. Best move I ever made.

  I was relieved to see that his cockiness and insistence that he was a “badass carpenter” wasn’t some sort of show he put on. He knows what he’s doing. Since that job and promotion, I’ve removed the interim portion of his title and we’re busier than ever. And, still friends.

  “Take a seat,” I say, motioning to one of the chairs at the table. I don’t do desks. I may be a business owner, but I don’t have a traditional office.

  “I’m looking over our specs for the next few jobs and I’m wondering if I should have taken the Sullivan’s job.”

  “Why? I thought we just had those two additions and you talked to Mr. Jessup about bumping his until after the Sullivan’s job was complete.”

  “I did. I’m not worried about the sites, it’s the business side of things that has me a mess. Taxes, payroll, vendors, all of that. It’s a lot.”

  “Maybe it’s time you take your old man’s advice and hire someone to do all of that. There’s no reason to run yourself into the ground, man.”

  “You’re right. Maybe in a few months when things calm down. If I don’t have time to handle this shit, how am I going to make time to interview people for the job?”

  “Good point. I take it you’ll be running the Sullivan’s job?”

  “Yeah, Patty sent me an email and asked me to do a few extra things since we’re there. It’s easy stuff so it shouldn’t be too much extra work. You’re good with your crew on the Kaplan’s house?”

  “Sure thing. So, can we put work aside for the important question?”

  “I guess. What’s important?” />
  “How awful is it living with Ash? She must be driving you nuts.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “Nah, man. She’s okay. The first few days were awkward but it’s fine now. We don’t really see each other with our schedules. I think I saw on the calendar she’s home tonight so that’ll be the first time since she moved in we’re both home at the same time.”

  “You guys have a calendar? How domestic,” he muses. “So, have you talked about the … you know.”

  I do know. “No, and I think that’s best left in the past. And, I told you never to mention it. Ben would kill me.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. Look at him now, with Piper. He’d understand. Plus, it was one time and you said it yourself, it was a mistake.”

  “I never said it was a mistake. I said I made a mistake. Never mind. We’re friends and that’s how it needs to stay. Plus, Ashton is a white picket fence kind of girl and I’m not that guy.”

  “Uh, Ashton Sullivan, right? I don’t think she’s a white picket anything but whatever. All right, I’m out of here. Going out to do the walk through with Mr. Kaplan. You want to hit the Road this weekend? Looks like we’ll be pretty busy the next few weeks and may not have time for many nights out.”

  “Sure. I’ll text Ben too. Make sure you get Mr. Kaplan to sign off on the scope of work before you order the lumber.”

  “I will. Take care, bossman,” Owen sing songs. I throw my pen at him but only catch the door as it closes.

  Sitting back in my seat, I let what Owen said fully digest. Mistakes are moments of regret. I do not regret my time with Ashton. I regret how I handled it and that my actions have affected not only my relationship with her but, in many ways, affected our entire group of friends. We’re all still friends, but the tension has been there.