I shake my head. “And you’re lucky I am. Imagine if someone other than me found you tonight.” My hands curl into fists at the thought. I shut her door and come around the driver’s side.
I drive to my house, a fixer-upper on the beach I invested a huge chunk of savings in to buy and renovate myself. After my years working on Wall Street, trying to be someone I’m not in order to make money to help my parents and younger brother, I found myself miserable despite the wealth. I retreated from thatlife and returned to my roots, working with my hands, managing a bar, and feeling better about the man I want to be.
Apparently, that man has a savior complex when it comes to one particular drunk, rich, prettyyoungwoman. Who knew?
By the time I reach my place, a short ten-minute drive, she’s fallen asleep against the door. I park in my driveway and turn off the ignition, climbing out and walking around to the passenger side.
I open the door, making sure to catch her before she leans too far outside the car, unbuckle her seatbelt, and lift her into my arms. Her breasts press against my chest, allowing me to feel her curves and imagine those breasts bare, her nipples dusky pink and rigid with need.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I ignore my uncomfortable hard-on and walk the three steps up to the front door. Her eyes open at the bouncing motion. Emerald-green orbs stare up at me, but instead of wariness, I see more trust, backed up when she doesn’t try to wiggle out of my grasp and stand on her own.
Instead, she lets out a contented sigh, wraps her arms around my neck and lays her head against my chest. Desire ramps up inside me, thoughts of peeling off her oh-so appropriate silk top and suckling on her tight nipples rushing through my head.
Fuck.
I’m going to hell for the things I want to do with the woman in my arms. Even knowing our age difference, I can’t convince myself it matters. Not in my daydreams, anyway. Reality is a whole different ballgame. I am a master at self-control.
Even so, I have no doubt I’ll jerk off to that vision in the shower, then toss and turn, the scent of strawberries forever embedded in my brain.
CHAPTER TWO
Gabby
Iwake upto the sun streaming through a window and searing into my eyes. I immediately close them tight. And as last night comes back to me in a technicolor movie-like reel, I groan. I might have been drunk last night, and I’m definitely hungover this morning, but I remember every detail.
I was mauled by Preston at my parents’ party, rushed from the house, and ended up at The Back Door where a nice bartender named Cal served me drinks, and thenheshowed up. The man who brought me to his house because I refused to give him my parents’ address. After consoling myself with the fact that at least I didn’t throw up in his car, I force my eyelids open and blink into the sun.
I take stock. The headache is to be expected. No nausea, thank God. And I’m still in my dress from last night while my shoes are on the floor by the bed. The hot bartender, Maddox, I remember, didn’t take advantage of me. He brought me home and took care of me, making him a decent guy.
There’s an old-fashioned shade on the window which hasn’t been rolled down, explaining my bright wakeup call. I look around and see bare walls with holes where picture hooks once were, faded rectangles where pictures once hung.
On the nightstand, I’m surprised to find a tall glass of water and two Ibuprofen. I’m touched by the thoughtful gesture from a stranger whose hospitality I’m already taking advantage of, and very grateful. I sit up, immediately swallowing the pills and downing the entire glass of water. With a little luck, between thisand some food, I’ll get rid of the pounding headache. Once I have a clear head, I can figure out what to do next.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and look around, noticing my purse on the wooden dresser across from me. My phone is inside it, and I’m not ready to see the dozens of messages my mother probably left. Still, I’m not a procrastinator and decide it’s better to know what awaits me. I retrieve my cell and turn it on, wincing at the text messages, missed calls, and voicemails.
A quick scroll through reveals my mother is furious that Iembarrassed the family by leaving, my grandmother urges me to check in, and Preston informs me I’ve had my fun and it’s time tocome home and face up to my responsibilities.Asshole.
I leave my phone on the dresser with my purse and walk into the hall, finding a bathroom across from the room where I slept. Once I’m inside and lock the door, I see he left me a toothbrush, toothpaste, and towels on the counter, along with what looks like one of his t-shirts.
I blow out a long breath, wondering how I got so lucky to find a good guy in my drunken state. The bathroom is basic. The toilet is a standard, and the sink white porcelain with a small two-door wood vanity. I turn on the shower water, adjust the temperature, undress and step under the warm spray. There’s soap along with generic bottles of shampoo and conditioner, and I gratefully use them all. A little while later, I step out of the bathroom feeling clean and refreshed and wearing a soft tee-shirt that falls to my knees, and yesterday’s underwear I turned inside out. I stop in my room to take a hair tie out of my bag and pull my long hair into a messy bun on top of my head.
I glance in the mirror. My cheeks are pink from drinking and my eyes a little glassy, but without access to makeup, there isn’t much more I can do. Last night, I made a fool of myself, and Ihave to face the bartender and see whether he’s as good-looking as I remember. Or if I was viewing him through a drunken lens.
The house doesn’t appear to be big, and it’s definitely under renovation. As I make my way to the kitchen, I notice the walls in the large family room have been primed but only one is painted, and there’s furniture, a mahogany-colored leather sofa and matching club chair and a large steamer-trunk as a cocktail table. No knickknacks, nothing giving the place a homey feel. I walk toward what I assume is the kitchen, glancing out the sliding glass doors as I pass. The patio is also being worked on, the dirt outside having been dug up and most of the old bluestone removed except for a few square stones providing a walking path to the sandy area behind it.
I stop in the kitchen entry, taking in the obviously new, stainless-steel appliances, a swirled mix of gray, white, and black granite countertops, and a weathered wood tile on the floor in a steel gray. It’s masculine and very much like the man I remember meeting last night.
Speaking of my host, he stands in front of the sink, looking out a window. With no shirt, a pair of black track pants ride low on his hips. Defined muscles are visible in his upper back, tapering down to a lean waist. From behind, he’s an extremely hot man, and I swallow hard, and wrong, and begin to cough and choke on my own saliva.
He turns at the sound, his gaze landing on me. I blink, and tears drip down my face as I struggle to catch my breath while taking in the hotness before me. No drunken goggles for me. The man is the perfect male specimen, his dark hair tousled from sleep, his brown eyes warm, and his tanned body a picture of muscled goodness with a tattoo on one shoulder.
His eyes soften in concern. “You okay?”
I nod and swipe at the wetness on my cheeks. “Swallowed wrong.”
Once I stop coughing, his gaze drifts from my face, traveling down my body. I might not have a ton of experience, but his eyes definitely heat, and I glance down to find my nipples poking through my thin cotton tee.HisT-shirt. Embarrassed, I fold my arms across my chest, and he immediately turns away.
He takes a few steps to the fridge, pulls out a carton, grabs a glass from a cabinet and pours orange juice into the cup. “Here.”
