The helping hand was there again, splayed against my back, urging me into a sitting position. My stomach stayed where it was supposed to, but my head threatened to fall off. I groped about blindly, hoping I’d come into contact with a glass, a bottle, something full of water. I’d drink it, lie back down, and never touch liquor again.
“Hey.” His voice was soft, his touch softer as he slid his fingers under my chin and tipped it up. “Open your eyes.” I whimpered and struggled to comply. He was frowning. Somehow the sexy mouth creases were still sexy even with his lips pulling in the opposite direction. That shouldn’t have been possible. It also wasn’t fair. “You sure you only had three last night?”
I shrugged, then winced. I’d lost track of time, drowning in my thoughts, so it was entirely possible I’d had more than the three or four doubles I could remember. I took the glass of water he handed me, along with the pills, and swallowed. “I don’t know,” I said after I’d drained the glass.
His frown deepened. “You make a habit of that?”
“Habit of what? Drinking too much? Not lately. The hangovers are a bitch.”
He stared at me a moment before he took the glass and stood, and I watched him walk to the bathroom. Nice ass. Went well with the shoulders. He returned a minute later with a full glass and handed it to me, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You said you were looking for me.”
I swallowed water, begging it to do its job and take some of the sickness away. “I did?” He just sat there and waited. I held out the empty glass in an attempt to coax more water from him. When he took it and placed it on the bedside table, I sighed. “You weren’t there and the alcohol was. The rest you know.”
His mouth twisted in another frown. “Don’t know where you got the idea I was okay with being used as some kind of fuck toy, but I’m going to have to disabuse you of that notion.”
Heat flared over my face as shame crept in. That was exactly what I’d gone there for. “I’m sorry.” The words sounded rusty from disuse, and in a way, they were. I hadn’t said them, hadn’t meant them, in well over a year.
I had to get out of there. Away from Trevor and back in my crappy apartment. Where I could shower off the filth of what I’d done to myself and tried to do to him, and sleep until the aches I felt were the usual ones.
I twisted away from him and carefully put my feet on the floor, aware for the first time I wasn’t wearing any pants. I still had on my tank top, and my bra was stabbing me in several places. No drunken sex. Always a good sign. I pushed my hair behind my ears. “I’ll take that ride, if you’re still offering.”
His eyes narrowed, and his chin dropped to his chest. “Fuck.” He stood and reached for me, slipping his arms around my waist. “What you were doing drinking yourself sick last night?”
I peered up at him. “Why do you care?”
One side of his mouth quirked up. “Fuck if I know. But since I was part of your original plan, I’m curious why you thought whiskey was the next best thing.” His hand slipped under the edge of my tank. “You told me you were a teacher last night. I imagine sometimes the students would drive you to drink, but it can’t be that bad.”
That was it. Morning breath, bed head, and puffy, pasty skin be damned, I wanted someone to hold me so I didn’t fall apart, and I wanted that person to be Trevor. I slumped forward, and my head came to rest on his shoulder. “I’m so tired,” I said quietly. “The last time we were together, I felt great the next day. Better than I had in weeks. Then Gwen told me there was a problem with my Social Security number and I had to tell her something so I could keep my job and I’ve been fighting it ever since.”
His arms tightened. “You’re not making a whole lot of sense.”
“I know.” I snuggled closer. “I’m not ready to talk about it yet.” I needed to, and for some reason, I needed to tell Trevor. Soon. “Sorry.”
“Eh, I think the hangover you’ve got is a good enough punishment.”
Startled, I laughed, then moaned as the sound bounced through my tender head. “Don’t think I can drive just yet. Let me call a cab, and I’ll get out of here.” My stomach rolled once, flipped over, and the water I’d drank threatened to put in a return appearance. I swallowed hard. “Hold that thought.”
I pushed past him and hurried into the bathroom, shutting the door in his face. I’d already embarrassed myself enough. I didn’t want add getting sick in front of him to the list. The sounds of retching were decidedly unsexy. I breathed in through my nose, out through my mouth, kneeling gingerly in front of the toilet, just in case. In, then out. In, then out. Over and over and over. The nausea calmed, and I sat back on my heels, shutting my eyes. Definitely needed to leave. Only now I was afraid I’d end up puking all over the back of the cab I couldn’t actually afford.
The door eased open. “McKenna?”
“Yeah,” I whispered.
“You okay?”
“Not really.” Hoping my stomach would stay where it belonged, I got to my feet and braced myself against the sink. “Um. My pants? I should—” I waved a hand at my legs. “Put them on. Or something.”
Trevor frowned. “Doesn’t feel right, kicking you out like this.”
I managed a smile. “You have to get to work. I understand.”
His frown deepened. “Go back to bed. There’s a spare key on the side of the fridge, just lock up when you leave.”
I stopped listening after he said “bed”. I reached under my tank and undid the hooks of my bra, pushing the straps down my shoulders and dragging it from under my shirt. “I’m taking horrible advantage of you, but right now I don’t care.” My head begged me to lie down. I stumbled out of the bathroom and over to the bed, crawling under the covers, my body sighing with relief as I lay down.
I was almost out when the mattress dipped beside me. “Piece of work.” A faint warmth brushed over my temple, and I surrendered to sleep.
* * *
Where the fuck was I?
My nose was pushed into an unfamiliar pillow. A hand on my shoulder, bra digging into my ribs. Meeting Mr. Nice to Look At. Trevor. His name was Trevor. He saved me from drowning in an ocean of whiskey and bought me a burger. I almost puked in his bathroom.
Every inch of me felt coated in filth. My eyes were gritty, there was a sour taste in my mouth, and my skin was dry and itchy and much too tight. I needed a gallon or three of water, a shower, and possibly some scrambled eggs.
My joints creaked as I rolled onto my back, then pushed myself up to scan the room. The shadows had shifted. It had been early morningish when Trevor had woken me. It looked like early afternoon now. He’d said there was a spare key. I should lock up when I left.
The spare key implied I’d be seeing him again.
I hoped so. Fuck, I hoped so.
I ventured into the bathroom and winced when I looked in the mirror. Hair sticking out in all directions, pasty skin, dark circles under my eyes. I’d hoped those would have gone away with all the sleep I’d gotten. Guess not.
Splashing water on my face, I did my best to finger comb my hair, rinsed out my mouth, and went hunting for my jeans. They were neatly folded on top of the dresser, and I pulled them on, then slipped on my sandals.
I found a plastic bag under the kitchen sink and stuffed my bra into it. The key was where he’d said it was, clipped to the side of the fridge. There was a sticky pad on the counter, and I rooted through drawers looking for a pen, finally finding one mixed in with the silverware. Shaking my head, I scribbled my name and number on the pad, peeled off the page, and slapped it on the fridge where he’d see it.
All that was left was to figure out where the hell the bar was from here.
The heat wasn’t insufferable, but it was getting there. We’d turned right into the parking lot for his building, so I turned left out of the lot. Hopefully the bar wasn’t far from here. Places always seemed closer in a car.
I passed small houses and low-slung buildings, new construction townhouses and emp
ty lots, waiting to be occupied. I wished there were trees. Some shade. The sun burned my shoulders, sweat trickling down my back. Thirty minutes later I was still walking, regretting my decision to walk back to my car instead of calling a cab to come take me home. At least I could remember my address. I didn’t even know the name of the bar.
Another fifteen minutes, and a familiar flattened building came into view. If I’d had any more liquid in me, I would have cried. My car sat in the corner, lonely and forlorn. I unlocked the door and slumped into the driver’s seat. Water. I desperately needed water. I rolled down the windows and started the car, heading for the service station down the road.
I drank down two one liter bottles by the time I pulled into the lot in front of my building, and I was still thirsty. The air in my apartment was stifling; the landlord hadn’t gotten around to fixing the air conditioning. I stripped off my dirty clothes as I walked into the kitchen, refilled one of the bottles from the pitcher I kept in the fridge. I’d drink it in the shower.
Something about a hot shower after a hard night makes it the best shower. Every time. I felt clean. New. Reborn. At least until my stomach reminded me I wasn’t quite invincible and it would be wise to go slow.
My phone rang as I was getting out. By the time I’d wrapped a towel around me and found the damn thing, it had stopped. The read out displayed an unfamiliar number. My heart stuttered. Was he home already? It was barely three in the afternoon.
It pinged with a voicemail, and I forced myself to ignore it until after I’d stopped dripping water over everything. I felt mostly human again, clean and dressed in a tank and my panties, the blinds drawn to keep the worst of the heat out of the tiny place. I refilled the bottle and flopped on my threadbare couch to replay the voicemail.
“McKenna.”
The way he said my name, all lazy and drawn out, sent shivers over my skin. Nothing remarkable about it, my name or his voice, but the combination was like the whiskey I’d drunk, warm with a faint burning trace.
“Thanks for locking up. Give me a call when you want to return the key.” He rattled off a number that I didn’t bother to write down. I’d be replaying the message again. And again. Not that I needed to. I’d memorized it already.
My fingers moved of their own volition and punched in the number, and the phone was at my ear and ringing through before I thought maybe he didn’t mean tonight. Right this second.
He answered anyway.
“Trevor Sedgwick.”
I almost bobbled the phone. “Um. Hi. It’s McKenna. From the bar?”
He chuckled. “I know who you are. How’s the head?”
“Still attached to my body. Thanks for letting me sleep it off. I’d like to repay the favor. Sometime. I could make you dinner.” I snapped my mouth shut. No more. I needed to stop talking before I’d talked my way into a hole.
“You remember how to get here?”
My brows scrunched together. “Yes…”
“Good. Come over around seven. Place should be cooler by then.”
Oh. Oh. He meant tonight. In a few hours. “Okay.” Food. I could cook food. “Wait. What do you want for dinner?”
Silence, long and deep and crammed with more meaning than I’d intended. “Whatever you’ve got on the menu.” I could take that. Take that and run with it, twist it into a thousand different meanings. There was only one that mattered.
I was on the menu tonight.
Chapter Six
The bag’s handle cut into my fingers. It wasn’t that heavy. I was just holding it too tight. I shifted it to my other hand as I stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring up.
I was here to make dinner for Trevor.
It could be taken as so many things. Dinner between two strangers. A meal between lovers. Were we lovers? Did one night make us lovers if we were destined to repeat it again, and again, and again? If we were, I’d better have an orgasm.
The last time I’d done something like this, made dinner for someone, a male someone, was almost two years ago. But I’d broken up with him months before I left Bend, and that had been the end of our cozy dinners for two.
After Scott, I stopped dating. It was pointless, and I used the distance to erect a barricade around my heart. It’d already taken a beating. I couldn’t handle another one.
With Trevor, there was no barricade. I hadn’t thought I might need it until it was too late. And now I was here, standing at the base of the steps, staring up. About to make dinner for a one night stand who was no longer a one night stand.
I climbed the stairs, the bag smacking against my leg, chest tight with anticipation. My knock sounded hollow, like it was echoing into an empty room. Panic flared. Maybe he wasn’t home. Maybe this was all a joke, or a dream, and I’d be standing on the landing in front of his door, a bag of groceries weighing me down.
The door swung open. His shaggy hair was damp and curling at the ends, jaw scruffy from days of not shaving. The ratty t-shirt he wore clung to his broad shoulders. I wanted to curl my fingers into it. Would it be soft and warm from him, smelling of detergent and his aftershave?
His grin was slow, spreading over his face until it lit it up. He gestured to the bag. “Need some help?” Instead of waiting for an answer, he took the bag from me and stepped aside. “C’mon in.”
I could get used to his apartment all too easily. It was a standard apartment, clean white walls, living room, kitchen, bedroom, but it had a familiar feel. It felt like…home.
Or maybe he did.
Too much, McKenna.
“I hope omelets are okay.” I should have said no tonight. My system hadn’t recovered enough to entertain most solid foods. I should have stayed away. Built that wall. Kept him out. Because no man wanted to be the well that caught the overflow of feelings waiting to drown me.
He led me into the kitchen and set the bag on the counter. “Hangover food, huh?”
I burst out laughing. “Busted. It’s pretty much the only thing that sounded good. I swear I have more culinary skills than glorified scrambled eggs.”
He smiled and leaned against the counter, all lanky limbs and sexy mouth creases, blue eyes gleaming with amusement and interest. My already frazzled nerves went tight with anxiety as the intimacy of the situation rammed into me full force. I was going to fumble this. Badly.
My hands shook as I pulled the eggs from the bag. “Pepper and mushrooms okay?” I lined up the rest of the ingredients, a short row of food soldiers. Eggs. Milk. Bell pepper—red, because it was cheery. Mushrooms. On and on, until everything I’d need to make a complete breakfast stood on the counter.
“McKenna?”
His shirt was as soft as I’d imagined, rubbing against my arm. I wanted to tear it apart, feel it give, push it up and out of the way. “Yeah?” I hadn’t meant to whisper. My voice just didn’t want to work.
He slid a hand into my hair, cupping my head and turning it toward his. Warm lips closed over mine, as soft and firm and giving as they’d been the first night. Desire unfurled from its slumber and slid through me, and I turned my body into his, wanting this. Him against me. Him over me. Under me. Everywhere. Silencing the shouts and chasing away the ghosts.
“Thought I’d get that out of the way,” he murmured, the words buzzing against my lips. “Gonna do that a lot tonight.”
He eased back, tucking my hair behind my ears. “Like the red.”
I blinked. “Oh. Um. Thanks.” I waited for my heart to settle and distracted myself by slipping my hand under the hem of his shirt, flirting with the warm skin of his abdomen. “Hungry?” I stroked a finger along the waistband of his jeans, dipping beneath it.
Rough fingers closed around my wrist, the grip gentle. “Keep doing that, you won’t get to eat.”
I left my hand where it was.
“McKenna.”
Curling my fingers, I scratched over his stomach. “What else are you gonna do to me tonight?”
His stomach shuddered under my hand. “I’m tryin�
�� to be a nice guy here. Have a conversation. Not throw you over my shoulder and carry you into the bedroom.” He pulled my hand out from under his shirt.
Then pressed a kiss to the palm.
The flimsy first boards of the barricade splintered under the sweetness of the kiss. However we started, if we started, whatever it was between us, there would be tenderness. I stared at his chest. “I don’t understand you.”
He tipped my chin up. “Open book. Ask away.”
The words came out before I could stop them. “You do this often? Hook up with random women and then keep them around long enough to have them make you dinner?”
That sounded horrible. Made him sound like a player. Though maybe he was. Maybe that was his thing.
He shrugged. “Don’t know about often, but yeah. Done it before. Why settle for one night when the chemistry says there could be more? You extended the invitation, I took it.” He lifted my hand to his mouth again, nipped into my index finger. “You hold the reins here. You want dinner? We’ll keep it at dinner.”
Something in me dropped at his explanation, my stomach, my heart, I didn’t know. I didn’t know why I wanted to be special. Different. “And if I want more than dinner?” I held my breath, waiting for his answer. Part of me hoped he wouldn’t figure out what I was asking for, because I wasn’t sure if I wanted to take it. Yet.
He dipped his head and kissed me again. “It’ll have to wait until after we eat.”
With that, he stepped back and I stared at the food lined up on the counter. Dinner. Dinner as repayment for looking out for me last night. I could keep it at that. “Bowls? Pans?”
He nudged me out of the way, got down a bowl, placed a small frying pan on the burner. “Silverware’s in there.” He pointed at a drawer next to my left hip.
“Thanks.” I washed the mushrooms and pepper first, the running water my excuse not to talk. The quiet stretched into minutes, and I fell into the familiar rhythms of cooking, slicing vegetables, beating the eggs, acutely aware of Trevor leaning against the counter and watching me. The pan took forever to heat, and I kept my gaze trained on it. “You grow up around here?”
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