“How do you know? Are you a doctor?” Her spatula is flying around the air like she’s performing some sort of performance art.
“No, but I’m also not actively trying to poison myself.”
I can’t help it, I burst out laughing. The sound erupts from me before I can stop it, and both of them turn to look at me.
Nitro’s expression shifts immediately, his features softening in a way that makes my chest tight. Those luminous green eyes sweep over me, taking in every messy, hungover, disaster-adjacent inch, and somehow, impossibly, he still looks at me as if I’m something worth seeing.
“Have you had some painkillers for that hangover, Small Town?” he asks, and there’s something in his voice that makes the nickname sound like an endearment.
Which is ridiculous because he literally only met me just over a week ago.
“I have… thank you,” I manage, carrying both coffee mugs to Sage’s small kitchen table. “You really didn’t have to stay.”
“Yes, I did.”
Three words. Simple. Direct. Brokering no room for argument.
Derek would have made me feel guilty for even calling, that is if he even answered the phone. He would have sighed and made it clear that picking me up was a massive inconvenience. That he was doing me a favor I’d have to repay somehow.
But Nitro says it like it’s a fact.
Like, of course, he stayed.
Like there wasneverany other option.
Sage turns from the stove, pointing the spatula at him again. “See, Marley? This is whatdecentmen do. They don’t leave their drunk friends to get murdered. They camp outside in their cars like absolute psychopaths…” she pauses. “Which is weirdly both creepy and romantic. I’m actually quite conflicted. I don’t knowwhether to call the cops or write to Hallmark and get him a movie deal. It’s a conundrum for sure.”
“You’re also drunk,” Nitro points out as he lowers himself into one of Sage’s kitchen chairs. The chair creaks ominously under his weight.
“Hungover,” Sage corrects primly. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Yes. When I’m drunk, I have poor judgment. When I’m hungover, I have perfect clarityaboutmy poor judgment.” She turns back to the stove, flipping a pancake with more force than strictly necessary. “Also, everything is too loud, and I hate the sun. But I would love another drink, hair of the dog, and all that.”
I chuckle, sliding into the chair across from Nitro, and immediately, I’m overwhelmed by his presence. He smells like leather and something woodsy, cedar maybe? And there’s this energy coming off him that makes me want to lean closer and run away at the same time.
His eyes stay focused on me, studying my face, and I feel suddenly self-conscious about the mascara smudges, the disastrous ponytail-bun thing I have going on, and the fact that I probably have tequila breath.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, his voice gentle.
“Like death warmed over,” I admit. “But also weirdly okay. Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense.”
Sage carries a plate stacked high with pancakes to the table, followed by syrup, butter, and three forks. She drops into the chair beside me with a dramatic groan.
“I’m never drinking again,” she announces.
“You literally just asked for another drink,” I point out.
“I’m not perfect, okay. I’m just not drinking again, but if you have a drink, I wouldn’t say no.”
Nitro grins, reaching for a pancake, and I watch his massive hands handle the fork with surprising delicacy. Something is mesmerizing about the way he moves, controlled, deliberate, like every action is measured.
“So,” Sage says, stabbing a pancake with her fork and drowning it in syrup. “Let’s talk about the elephant in the room.”
I raise my brow. “What elephant?”
