“Brush your teeth while you’re up there, okay?”
When he’s out of sight, I crane my neck, listening for the sound of the shower from Dallas’s room down the hall. Only when I hear it do I relax back onto the stool.
I moved like a cheetah earlier, stashing my rogue boob back into my tank and snatching one of Dallas’s discarded T-shirts before hauling ass out of his bedroom. His laughter followed me down the hall to the second bathroom, but I didn’t dare look back.
Now he’s showering, allowing me the peace to drink my coffee and stew over the wellspring of humiliation I’ve endured over the last day. I honestly can’t decide which part to focus on first.
The confirmation that every person in town now knows exactly how horrible I am at choosing men?
Or maybe my ex acting like such a colossal douchebag that my best friend feels he has no other choice than to declare himself my personal bodyguard?
How about being lucky enough to have my stupid recurring nightmare make an appearance on theonenight my new bodyguard happens to be within earshot?
But that pity marriage proposal-slash-matchmaking plan is a real contender too.
No. It’s got to be feeling my hot best friend’s cock knocking on my back door while he was most likely dreaming about some sexy, size-zero model.
Or perhaps I should just focus all my attention on the humiliation of giving said best friend a free titty show while flat on my back on his bedroom floor, looking like death warmed over, complete with bed hair and morning breath.
“You are a hot fucking mess,” I groan into my coffee mug.
Nelly whines from his spot on the couch, head up and ears back.
“Oh, not you,” I reassure. “You’re perfect. Don’t ever change a thing.”
Satisfied, he sighs and rests his chin back on his front paws.
I need to get to work before Dallas comes out here to “chat,” but my clothes are in his bedroom—the same room where he’s probably stalking around naked now, dripping wet from his shower.
My first appointment is in an hour at a ranch just down the way, but I promised Violet at Rockers ’n Knockers that I’d stop by on my way to check on her goat. Violet is a bit of a hypochondriac, and that extends to Curly as well. She once asked me to test her goat for STIs ’cause she caught him watching internet porn with her godson.
“I was looking for that shirt.”
I turn on my stool to see Dallas pulling a black T-shirt over his head. His hair is wet and mussed from the shower, and his ab muscles ripple with his movements as he saunters my way. I glance down at the Old Dominion T-shirt covering my tank top—the same tank top that’s going in the trash as soon as I find a bra and some clothes. His shirt is tight across my chest, but at least it covers me up.
“Finders keepers.” I shrug, spinning my mug on the counter to give me something to do with my hands.
He has the audacity to wink and say, “Looks better on you anyway.”
While I mull over that one, Dallas takes his sweet ass time adjusting his belt and wandering into the kitchen to fix himself a cup. Only when it’s full and he’s made his way directly across from me to rest his elbows on the counter does he speak again.
“So, how long have you been havin’ those nightmares?”
Cutting right to the chase, are we? Some things never change.
I flap one hand in the air, not meeting his eyes. “Oh that? That was nothing.” I shake my head and roll my eyes for extracasual vibes. “Just sleeping in an unfamiliar place, probably.” Somebody hand this woman an Oscar already! Jesus.
Dallas’s eyebrows spike, his hand stilling halfway to his mouth with his coffee. “You’re full of more shit than Meemaw’s chickens.” He takes a sip, winces at the heat, and then sets his mug on the butcher-block counter. “The only place more familiar to you than your own place is mine.” When I open my mouth to remind him I’ve never hung out in his bedroom, he cuts me off. “And you were calling for your momma.”
My throat constricts, any trace of moisture gone as tears cloud my vision. Dallas doesn’t move a muscle, as if he knows the only thing keeping the tears from turning into a waterfall is his distance. I tip my head back and blink until they recede, and I can swallow again.
When I finally speak, my voice is small and scratchy. “I didn’t know I did that.”
Dallas nods slowly, eyes resting on his corded forearms propped on the counter.
It’s absolutely no secret to Dallas—or anyone, for that matter—that I still mourn my parents. What daughter wouldn’t? But nobody apart from my grandparents and my brother ever knew about the nightmares.
And now Dallas, it seems.
