While not in her right mind, she’d spent the night in a stranger’s cottage. She had no one in the world to blame for her stupidity but herself.
In a bid to inject a sense of normalcy into the situation, Genevieve scooted to the edge of the bed and swung her feet to the floor. She still wore yesterday’s clothing, including gray socks decorated with the wordsI’m complicated, thank you very much.
As she stood and wrestled out of her wrong-way robe, it occurred to her that normalcy and this situation were mutually exclusive. Nonetheless, her pride commanded her to save face.
“I’m Genevieve Woodward.” She extended her hand.
Guardedly, he shook it. He did not reply.
“Well then.” Her mouth felt like cotton and dizziness sloshed inside her, but she drew herself tall. Smoothing the turquoise print blouse she’d paired with skinny jeans, she angled her head up because Sam was so much taller than she was. “Just so you know, I don’t usually sleep in homes that don’t belong to me.” She glued a smile to her lips.
Instead of smiling back, he considered her with frank seriousness.He had a fantastic body. Army green T-shirt, jeans, weather-beaten lace-up work boots. He kept his short brown hair shaved on the sides. His nose was a fraction too long, his eyes creased in a way that made them look melancholy. His teeth were straight, but not orthodontically straight. His faintly imperfect masculine features added up to an undeniably appealing face.
People usually responded well to her. But Sam’s pale green eyes, which struck a contrast against his slightly olive skin tone, transmitted no warmth whatsoever.
“Care to tell me why you slept here?” he asked.
“I...” She worked to invent a fairy tale he’d believe. “I was on my way to my parents’ house in Misty River last night. I’d been on the road for hours and was tired. Scary tired. So tired I couldn’t keep my head up.”
He said nothing.
“So I pulled over. Near here, I guess.” She gestured toward the road.
“And?”
“I didn’t want to fall asleep at the wheel and injure anyone, so I decided to grab a quick rest.”
“In a vacant building?”
“Yes.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “I’m very sorry. Obviously, I was so sleepy that I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“The box of pills I found in your purse didn’t have anything to do with it?”
Shock immobilized her. “You ... looked through my purse?”
“Yes. I couldn’t wake you and wanted to know what I was dealing with.”
Her purse was private. She couldn’t say that to him, however. For one thing, she was too polite to do so. For another, he’d simply respond by saying that his cottage was private, too. “My doctor prescribed those pills for pain.”
“What kind of pain?”
She knelt and pulled up the hem of her jeans to reveal the scar marking her outer right ankle. “Ankle surgery pain.”
“How long ago did you bust up your ankle?”
A blush bloomed on her cheeks. “A while.”
“How long is a while?”
She straightened. “A year.”
“And you’re still taking OxyContin for pain?”
“I am, yes.” Only one other person knew about her pills. And now, him. He knew.
He regarded her the way a teacher would a student who’d just told him she’d been too busy riding unicorns to finish her homework.
This was mortifying! How could this purse-snooping man with the alluring face and zero sympathy have uncovered her secret so suddenly and so thoroughly?
