"Okay. I think we need to go get you some coffee so you can try to sober up."
"Coffee is good," she agreed, falling into step beside him as he moved down the row.
"What's the matter?" he asked when they reached the front of the farm, and she let out a low whimpering noise.
"They all left me here," she declared, shaking her head sadly. "They all knew I was... I was... legless. And they left me. It's a long walk back to town. And there are probably bears here, right?"
"I think you'd worry more about the coyotes."
"Right. Coyotes."
"If it's any consolation, I think they were urged to leave by Maude."
"Why?" she asked, slow-blinking up at him.
"The same reason she got you off your ass drunk, I imagine."
"And why is that?" she asked, feeling the world spin a little, hoping she didn't start getting sick.
"Because she wanted me to be the one to drive you home."
"But why?"
"Because she's a meddler. It's what she does. Come on, this way," he said, touching her hip to steer her through the gate to the parking lot where only two cars remained. Her borrowed one. And a couple-year-old SUV that must have belonged to Liam. "Do you need anything out of your car?" he asked as she looked at it. "Someone will drive you back out this way tomorrow to get it. Don't worry about it."
"I need my purse," she mumbled, fumbling to get the key out of her pocket, bleeping the locks, and pulling it out of the trunk. "Okay."
"Okay," he agreed, putting her rolling cart in her trunk, closing it, then pressing a hand to her hip again to steer her.
"Do you feel that?" she asked, gaze moving down to his fingers touching the bare skin where her tee had ridden up.
"Feel what?"
"The... sizzle," she described lamely, shaking her head at the word, but it was the only one that could seem to force its way out of the molasses that was her brain right then.
"Feel a lot of things, but now isn't the time to talk about it."
"Because I'm drunk?" she asked, turning to face him at the passenger side of his car.
"Because you're drunk," he agreed with a nod, eyes looking regretful.
"That makes no sense," she declared, rolling her eyes at him, needing to slam her hand into his shoulder to stay steady when the world kept rolling even after her eyes stopped.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm the only one drunk. You can tell me things without it being under the influence."
"What do you want me to tell you, Riley?"
Her lips pursed for a moment before she shrugged. "Why don't you like historical fiction?"
"I love historical fiction," he countered, brows drawing together. "Why do you think I don't?"
"Because you..."
It almost slipped out before her mouth slammed shut, making her teeth clamp together painfully.
"Because I what?"
"Because you're a book snob," she improvised.
"So are you."
"Nuh-uh. I like all kinds of books. I just read a space opera last week. And liked it," she told him, raising her chin a bit haughtily.
"I read a book about faeries last month. And liked it," he told her, leaning in a bit, and she could see the crescent of a moon mirrored in his light eyes. "You alright?" he asked, brows drawing together. "You gonna pass out on me?"
The world did another spin, making her forehead press into his shoulder. "Wasn't there something about coffee?" she mumbled against his shirt, taking a deep breath, breathing in a slight trace of cologne - something mildly spicy, mingled in with a trace of his natural scent, something that made her want to press her whole body into his, get it all over her too.
"Yeah, honey," he mumbled, gently moving her to the side so he could open her door, easing her away from him to help her up into her seat, clipping her belt into place. "Press your head against the window," he suggested as he angled the air vents toward her while the A.C. started to blast. "In my experience, keeping cool is the way to avoid the dreaded sick part of over-drinking."
"I'm gonna kill Maude," Riley declared as the car lurched, making her stomach do the same.
She expected camaraderie, but Liam stayed silent the whole drive back to Stars Landing. "Hey, I sleep there," she declared, waving a hand toward the inn as they passed.
"Figure Meggie went home, and Em and James are likely in bed. No one to get you coffee there. I'll make you some."
Having had withdrawals about his perfect coffee, she couldn't seem to muster the energy to object as he parked out front of the bookstore, going around the car to help her out.
"Sit," he demanded, pressing her into one of the seats in the cafe as he went behind the counter to start the coffee, coming back as it was brewing with a bottle of water and two round pinkish pills. "Let's get ahead of the hangover, yeah?" he suggested as she just stared at it.
"Punch is evil," she declared after taking the pills, choking down about half the bottle of water, and watching as Liam made her coffee the way she liked, despite having an obvious objection to all the sugar as he grumbled while opening the packets.
"Drink," he demanded, dropping the coffee in front of her.
A small part of her remembered that she wasn't supposed to like the man, demanded she make some snide comment about his people skills. But he was being nice to her. And she found she liked it a little too much to drive another wedge there.
Half a cup later, her chin nestled against her palm on the tabletop, she caught herself swaying forward into sleep for the third time.
"Come on," Liam's voice called from what seemed to her as far away. But then his arms were going around her lower back and under her knees, lifting her weightlessly up, holding her body close, letting her head rest on his shoulder, breathing him in again as he carried her back through the door to a door behind the cafe, opening it with the tips of his fingers, carrying her within.
Her eyes closed. Lulled halfway to sleep, she didn't even bother to look and see where she was. It could have been the storage area or his kill room for all she knew.
But just a moment later, she was pressed down onto a soft mattress, a blanket pulled over her chilled body, everything surrounding her smelling like him, and then she didn't know anything else.
SEVEN
Liam
He moved quietly around in near darkness, not knowing what kind of sleeper she was, but knowing she needed to sleep off the alcohol or she was likely going to start getting sick.
Maude should have known better.
Only people who had been in town since their twenty-first birthdays could tolerate more than a cup of one of her concoctions. Hell, Emily who had always been able to hold her booze had been stripping across Main Street after the last Halloween party.
He knew Maude had some idea in her head about hooking the two of them up. Why? He wasn't sure. Since Maude's specialty was generally long-term relationships, and Riley had a life in the city, was just passing through.
Then again, Lena - his brother's woman - was only supposed to be around for a while, gathering up information on the inn for her boss. And Emily's man - James - still spent a lot of his time in the city or abroad handling work for his brother's company.
Sometimes, things worked out that way.
But not with them, he was sure.
Not when all Riley had done since she showed up was try to drive a wedge.
Why?
He had no idea.
Maybe he reminded her of an ex or something.
But she was doing everything within her power to fight him.
Even though it was clear she felt something. She'd shivered when he'd touched her, stopped breathing when he was close. Hell, she'd even admitted it to him while walking to his car. That there was a sizzle.
And there was.
A pessimistic, rational part of his brain wanted him to believe it was just because they butted heads, because conflict made for good chemistry a lot of the time.
But another part of
it - a part he rarely ever held the reins to because he knew how silly and sentimental that side was, thought it was something else. Something more.
A connection at the very least.
And it was so rare for him to connect with anyone that it was enough to keep him uncharacteristically hopeful.
That she would retract the claws, put away the thorns, let him get a little closer.
Sure, maybe it was just temporary.
But a temporary connection was better - in his way of thinking - than never having the connection to begin with.
His life didn't allow for anything more than that anyway.
Hell, as he moved around his place, he realized how ill-equipped he was to have a woman over, needing to tidy up the bathroom, wash the dishes in the sink, throw a quick load of towels in so that he had something to offer her if she woke up and wanted to clean off after all the peach picking that had left a small rash on the insides of his arms, and maybe hers as well.
He flicked on a radio, creating a small bit of noise with a classical station, changing into pajamas, and cozying up on his reading chair, pulling over a box full of books for the store to use as an ottoman, drifting off to sleep to the sound of her mumbling something about killing the queen - whatever nonsense her drunk mind was filling her dreams with.
His internal alarm woke him around seven, doing so with a start, a small part of him panicked that she might have woken up in the middle of the night, freaked, and hightailed it out of there.
But as his feet hit the ground, his head turning, he found her still in bed, the covers bundled up tighter around her body. He kept the bookstore and his place cold, colder than most people found comfortable. Including Riley, apparently.
He moved around, making a pot of coffee, doing so while creating a little noise, finding himself a bit anxious to wake her up, see what she had to say and do in the morning light without booze coursing through her system, making her snuggle into his neck while he carried her to his bed, taking deep breaths like she was trying to commit his scent to memory.
When she still hadn't stirred after the machine beeped piercingly loudly into the open space, he made her a cup, bringing it over to the bed, and dropping it down on his nightstand with a loud click.
"Ughh," she groaned, rolling from her side to her back, eyes opening blearily, heavy-lidded and red.
That was a hangover if he'd ever seen one. He could practically feel the pain of it himself.
"Just put me out of my misery," she demanded in a pained voice. "Hold the pillow over my face. I don't have the strength to fight you."
"Have some coffee. You'll feel better," he lied, bringing his own mug up to his mouth for a sip, watching as she slowly as if trapped in quicksand pushed herself up to a sitting position, reaching for the mug with both hands, taking a long sniff before sipping.
If he wasn't mistaken - and he damn sure wasn't - her eyes did a slow once-over as she drank, making him aware of the fact that all he had on was a pair of blue plaid pajama bottoms, leaving his whole upper body exposed.
"I figured there was more," she said when she noticed him catching her staring.
"More?" he repeated.
"Tattoos," she clarified. "No one goes straight for a neck tattoo. There's always something else first.
There was a half set of bold quotation marks near the front of his shoulder, a Deathly Hallows symbol on the same spot on the other shoulder, 451* above the crook of his right arm, and, finally, the largest of them all, a giant carousel horse across his chest - the one that was forever immortalized on the cover of The Catcher in the Rye.
"Is that all of them?" she asked, head ducked to the side a bit as her eyes traced the lines of each one.
Finding himself liking the close inspection a bit too much, he watched her dark eyes for a long moment before turning slowly, revealing the only other one he had - on his back left shoulder blade.
"Is that eecummings?" she asked, and he could hear the bed shift as she moved to stand. Figuring he would likely enjoy it more if she learned the truth for herself, he stayed still, feeling the heat of her body as she moved to stand behind him. "No, not cummings," she murmured, her hand pressing flat against his skin beside the words. "I know this though," she murmured, fingertip tracing over the first line about stealing horses.
"Want a hint?" he asked, hearing a bit of huskiness in his tone, and not caring.
"Just a small one."
"Native American author," he offered her.
"Sherman Alexie," she decided immediately.
"He's not as well known for his poetry as his novels, but there are some good ones."
"Yeah," she agreed, fingers still moving over the words. "I like the one about not having an Indian name."
"What the Orphan Inherits," he agreed. "That's a good one too."
"I like these," she admitted, words a little guarded. "So many tattoos are pointless or overdone. If I have to see one more of that damn C.S. Lewis quote..."
"Do you have any?" he asked, unable to help himself.
"One," she admitted, moving away so he could turn to face her again.
"Of?"
"It's a bird made out of the words Surcease of Sorrow."
"And that bird would be a raven. Like from the Poe poem."
"Can't get anything over on you, huh?"
"If you were going for obscure, using one of the most famous poems of all time might not have been the best choice.
"Fair enough," she agreed. "It's on my right shoulder," she admitted, going back to the bed, sitting on it cross-legged, a position that put all of her legs - save for the small swatch at the top covered by her jean shorts - on display, something he was trying not to notice too hard. "Thank you," she added, gaze dropping to the floor.
"For?"
To that, she snorted. "For getting me off the farm, getting coffee and water and ibuprofen in me, letting me crash here. I was out of it last night. I don't know if I've ever been that drunk."
"That's Maude for you."
"I need to give her a piece of my mind the next time I see her," Riley agreed, shaking her head. "I mean, what if no one had been left behind to drive me?" she asked. "Just because she thinks she's psychic doesn't mean that wasn't taking a big risk."
"You can try to chew her out, but you'll end up the one apologizing. Trust me, I've been there."
"Someone needs to pay for this hangover," she said, pressing her head back into the headboard, closing her eyes as she drank her coffee.
"How about I pay for your hangover breakfast?" he suggested, figuring he would take an in on the rare occasion he found one.
One of her eyes slitted open, her brow raising. "With hash browns?" she asked. "And breakfast potatoes?"
"They're your arteries," he agreed, his typical surly response, but he was smiling.
"Can I bum a shower first?" she asked, making him glad he thought ahead enough to do laundry and clean.
"Sure."
"You don't need to open the shop?"
"I doubt there will be a rush on books before nine in the morning."
"Okay. I will get moving after another cup and a half," she agreed. "So you get ready first."
With that, not having much of a choice, he went to the bathroom, turning the shower on lukewarm, dealing with the aftermath of her touch on his skin before climbing out, toweling off, and changing into clothes for the day.
He moved back out, finding Riley moving around his apartment, taking everything in.
He'd never had much need to pay it too much mind himself, generally being the only person ever there, save for his brother when he pushed his way in on occasion.
But he was seeing it with fresh eyes - her eyes -for a change.
It wasn't a huge space, mostly - save for the closet and bathroom - one large studio space of maybe eight-hundred feet. The bed was right inside the door, set back on the left, a large - for just him - queen with wooden head and footboards, and a simple black comforter, flanked on bot
h sides by nightstands with lamps for bedtime reading. In fact, there was a stack of paperbacks near the foot on the side he rarely slept on.
The dining area was in the center of the room - a simple round wooden space with two chairs and a stack of paperwork from the shop piled on top. One of his many sweaters was hanging off the back of one of the seats.
To the right was the kitchen - stainless steel and butcher block countertops - a kitchen that was definitely for utility since he rarely ate outside of the house, preferring to cook for himself.
To the far left in a corner was his reading chair with a lamp that curved over it for optimal light, the box he'd used as an ottoman still situated there.
To the back near the center was the door to the bathroom which he'd left open, revealing the gray tile on the floors and walls, the open white shower curtain.
There were things he never would have normally noticed if not for her walking around noticing them.
Like the way books were stacked two deep on the shelves behind his reading chair, the way he had paperbacks scattered all over - not only on the bed, but the top of the toaster, sitting on a shelf in an opened cabinet, on top of the refrigerator.
There were shoes thrown carelessly in a corner. The mop was out from the last time he had cleaned.
"I've never seen a bookmark collection before," she told him, sensing his presence even with her back to him as she stood facing the wall where he had a poster-sized white frame full of bookmarks - some signed, some not.
"I go to a lot of the conventions. They give them out."
"Like Bookcon?"
"And BookExpo since I am an 'industry professional'," he told her, using air quotes even though she wasn't looking at him.
"It's a really cool idea. I have a signed memory board from BookCon the last few years."
"We'd probably brushed shoulders without even realizing it," he agreed.
But for some reason, that was somehow the wrong thing to say. Her back stiffened, her chin lifted, and her voice had icicles in it when she spoke.
"Possibly. I'll be out in a few minutes," she said, quickly making her way across the room to close herself in the bathroom.
What The Heart Learns Page 9