“Go ahead. Do you think there’s anyone in town who isn’t aware of what I’m doing?”
He was right—she could see curtains twitching in windows as they passed. He carried her down the snowy street like it was the most normal thing in the world, like he carried tipsy women home every Friday night. That thought made her scowl.
“I hate you,” she informed him.
“No, you don’t.”
“I really, really do.”
“You bring me cookies.”
“That was before you went full caveman.”
He made a sound that might have been a laugh, quickly suppressed. She wanted to stay angry but his arms were so warm, and his chest was so solid, and she was suddenly, inexplicably exhausted.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she mumbled, her head drooping against his shoulder. “The Easter thing. I just thought… the kids would like you. You’re not a mascot.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, very softly, “I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
“But I?—”
“Sara.” Her name on his lips did something dangerous to her insides. “Just… rest. I’ll get you home.”
She wanted to argue. She wanted to demand he put her down, to march back to the tavern and prove she was perfectly fine, to make him understand that she hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings.
But his arms were strong and his heartbeat was steady against her ribs and the world was getting fuzzy around the edges.
“You have nice fur,” she said, nuzzling against his neck. “And you smell good.”
He stiffened. “Don’t.”
“Why? It’s true. You smell like… like snow and something else. Something woodsy. And a little bit like whiskey.”
“Of course I smell like whiskey. I work in a tavern.” But he didn’t push her away.
“Still nice.” Her eyes drifted closed. “I could just take a little nap. Right here.”
She wiggled a little, making herself more comfortable rather than trying to get away. He made another strangled sound but kept walking.
“Go to sleep, Sara.”
“Bossy rabbit.”
“Stubborn human.”
She drifted off somewhere between those words, warm and safe and held.
CHAPTER 7
Morning light stabbed through the curtains like a personal attack.
Sara groaned, pulling the pillow over her head, her brain pounding against her skull in steady, punishing waves. Her mouth tasted like regret and tequila, and her body felt like it had been put through a wringer.
What happened last night?
