Go ahead and flay me open, woman. Go right ahead and gut me where I stand.
"No," I choked out. There was no way in hell I could walk away now. "Just going to grab some water for you." I shot her a glance over my shoulder. That was a huge fucking mistake. She was tucked back against my pillows, her knees drawn to her chin and her ankles crossed. It was a modest pose, her most private places covered, and I didn't believe there could be anything more intimate. Or anything that could make me want to crawl to her on my hands and knees more. I wouldn't be able to look at those pillows again without wanting her right there, exactly like that. "Put your head down. I'll be right back."
I stood in the kitchen for several minutes, my hands curled around the lip of the countertop while my cock thrummed against my zipper. I had to remind myself I didn't know Annette, not beyond her reputation as the town sweetheart and everyone's favorite book mistress. But that bright, joyful woman, the woman who had a smile and buckets of patience, wasn't the one begging me to join her in my bed right now. The slightly heartbroken and fully drunk woman was asking, and there was a world of difference between the two.
With a growl aimed at any number of frustrations, I grabbed the glass and headed back down the hall. I was busy playing out several scenarios in my head and finding the side of right in each one. I could hold her for a bit, and kissing wasn't off the table, but it couldn't go any farther until she was sober. If she really wanted something more, well, I'd just handcuff myself to a chair, tell her what to do, and watch from a distance. It would probably result in a broken wrist and equally broken chair, but I'd do it if it kept that lonely, vulnerable bite from her voice.
I was so busy with those plans that I missed the sound of Annette snoring like a chainsaw. Water sloshed over the rim of the glass as I stuttered to a stop at the door, and I choked down a laugh. This woman was something else. Within minutes she'd gone from the picture of sweet sin to classic drunk chick. Her hair was tangled around her face like a veil, one leg was over the blankets, and her hands were pillowed under her head. She was just as alluring as always, but now she wasn't Miss Congeniality or the white-sundress-wearing book mistress of my fantasies. Now she was a real woman, raw and flawed, and miles away from the pretty girl on the town's pedestal. If it was possible, I liked this version even more because she saved it for me.
That was the story I was telling myself.
I set the water on the side table and tucked a wastebasket next to it in case that liquor came back to haunt her, and then pulled the quilt over her shoulders. The breeze off the water was cool and damp tonight, and I didn't want her waking up with a chill. I did my best to brush her hair from her face but sensed I was doing it wrong when she batted my hand away between snores.
"Sleep well, Annette," I whispered. "See? I told you I'd remember."
With a t-shirt and pair of athletic shorts in hand, I left Annette in my bedroom. It was odd stripping off my work clothes in the middle of the living room but it was one more thing I was ignoring for the time being. This entire evening was odd but while I collected her abandoned clothes and set them in my bedroom, I kept telling myself I was doing the right thing. Even if we both wanted me in that bed right now, it was best for me to find rest elsewhere.
My couch wasn't meant to sleep men like me. Not intentionally. It was too short, and the arms were bad pillows, and the fabric itched the patch of skin exposed when my t-shirt rode up. Worse than all of that was the erection throbbing against my belly.
Since I couldn't do anything about it—I mean, Icould, but I wasn't going to—I folded myself into a tolerable position and yanked an afghan over my legs. Nothing to kill a boner like Gramma's orange and blue afghan. That lady never quit with the Syracuse pride.
And the blue, it was especially fitting.
4
Reconstitute
v. To restore to a former condition by adding water.
Annette
I woke naked.That was my first clue that my evening had gone horribly, horribly wrong. The second clue was that I had no idea where I was.
My hair was a ratty disaster and I could smell the vodka seeping out of my pores. When I sat up to take in my surroundings, the contents of my stomach sloshed like a snow globe and I reconsidered ever moving again. I could stay here, in this strange bed, and make a new life for myself. Easy peasy. No need to account for my mistakes.
Carefully, I turned my head to glance at the framed photographs atop the dresser. I couldn't make out the fine details from this distance but I knew I was looking at a graduation photo. It wasn't a simple cap-and-gown setup though. It was military or…Oh, shit.
That was a police academy graduation photo and I was naked in Sheriff Lau's bed and oh my god how did I bring this many disasters upon myself in a twenty-four-hour period without earning some kind of medal? Where were the roses and cupcakes for being a prize train wreck? Because I wanted both, and the sash, too.
My only consolation was that I was naked and alone, and yes, that was better than being naked with Sheriff Lau. Only vodka used my body last night, and that was preferable. It was bad enough Owen dumped me…or whatever it was that went down between us…but I'd have to pack up and move to a new town if I'd drunkenly bedded the new sheriff. I didn't drunkenly bed anyone. Ever. I didn't possess the language to make those kinds of advances or negotiate those terms.
Then I caught sight of my sundress. It was neatly folded on the dresser, and my bra and panties sat right beside it. I stared at my clothes for a minute, wondering where I'd left my purse. As I dusted off hazy memories of yesterday, every minute of last night came rushing back to me. The bar, the cosmos, the water down his pants, the piggyback ride to his house, the kiss, the ass slapping—my god!—the way I'd begged him to take me to bed. The way I'd begged him to stay.
My embarrassment was much larger and far more powerful than my hangover, and it propelled me out of bed in a flash. I finger-combed my hair, threw on my clothes, and made the bed. I couldn't leave an unmade bed behind. I couldn't do it at my apartment, and I couldn't do it after inviting myself into the sheriff's bed. With the stealth of a cat burglar, I flattened myself against the hallway wall and tiptoed toward the door. I knew the sheriff was going to be around here somewhere, but I wasn't prepared to find him washed up on the couch.
He had one arm bent over his head, the other under his t-shirt, flat on his belly. Dark golden skin peeked out from where his t-shirt was rucked up and I spent a solid minute studying the muscled cuts on his torso. I thought those things only appeared while flexing but Jackson was as loose as linguini this morning.
His sandy blond hair was roughly tousled, as if he'd spent the entire night running his hands through the thick strands. He was a tall guy, too tall for this couch by at least six inches. Both legs dangled from the arm at angles I couldn't imagine were comfortable. There was a truly hideous blanket tangled around his legs but I couldn't spend a second wondering why anyone would knit such an atrocity after I caught sight of the tent in his shorts. At first, I didn't believe it was an erection. I'd never seen anything that,ahem, proud. I assumed it was something else. Maybe he had a cell phone in his pocket or…some zucchini. Sure, those were crazy options but no crazier than the possibility he was working withthatkind of equipment.
As I stared at him, I was reminded of him pressing me against the refrigerator and fitting himself between my legs. His dark brown almond-shaped eyes had clouded over with need when he ground into me. I'd felt every inch of him then, and I'd—I'd slapped him. Yes, I'd slapped this man's ass and I'd done it more than once.
"Oh my god," I breathed.
With a shake of my head, I slipped out the front door. It was early, even for a fishing community that lived and died by the dawn. I had to pick my way through the woods ringing the village to get back to my shop. It wasn't the most direct route, but I couldn't risk a walk of shame past the docks. Also, I had to stop every few minutes to vomit into the bushes, and that kind of local news would make it back to my parents in nine seconds flat. My mother would be on her knees at St. Cecelia's, lighting candles for the salvation of my soul. My father would threaten to pack up my apartment and move me back home. Somehow, I couldn't have that.
I made it back to my apartment and fished the extra key out of the loose cedar shingle near the door. I had several hours before I was due to open the shop for the day—I wasn't even going to think about the condition I left it in yesterday—but I was too edgy and overwrought for sleep. That was the smart choice but it was too late to start with that now. Not when I could flip onThe Great British Bake Off, drool over baked goods I'd never seen before, and tune out the world. I needed to forget a few things this morning.
I happened upon the Bake Off last winter. I didn't watch much television and couldn't justify spending money on a monthly cable bill, but I'd turned to public television after three weeks of mega snowstorms that shut down the seacoast. I was out of books to read, as impossible as that seemed, and I was going crazy in my little attic apartment. I found this charming import from the BBC that featured a dozen amateur bakers competing in a trio of challenges each week. It lacked all the snark and sass of most reality programming and focused instead on the baking itself.
