Chapter 3
The sound of running water pulled Charlotte from a deep, dreamless sleep. She stretched and realized immediately she wasn’t in her own bed. These weren’t her bamboo sheets, and she was still fully dressed. Then she remembered being tumbled into Malcolm’s bed.
Definitely not how her prior fantasies of that had played out. Those had involved fewer clothes and a lot more skin.
So much for waking up and sneaking out before morning.
At least she lived right next door. No walk of shame necessary. The likelihood that anyone had seen her come over here last night was low, and the doors to the duplex couldn’t be seen from the manor house.
She’d slept surprisingly well, all snugged up in his bed. It had been a long damned time since she’d shared sleep—or anything else—with anyone, and apparently some part of her had appreciated the closeness. She could admit to herself she really missed being held. And being held by a man as big as Malcolm was an extra pleasure. Whether he’d intended it or not, having him wrapped around her had made her feel safe. She hadn’t realized how much she needed that.
Her brain felt fuzzy, and her head ached. That was what she got for three shots of tequila on top of the cider she’d had at the party. But, all in all, she didn’t feel too terrible.
Evidently, her bedmate was up and banging around the bathroom. How awkward was this conversation about to be? He’d been vulnerable with her last night, something she knew he’d never have done sober. Would it change anything between them? Or would he go back to the way things were before?
Did she want it to change something? A part of her wouldn’t have minded sharing his bed on a more regular—and active—basis, but that was a lot more complicated since she lived here now. Starting something up with him would probably be a supremely bad idea. If it imploded, as it undoubtedly would, things might get weird for Malcolm with Raleigh. Charlotte didn’t want that.
What time was it, anyway? It was hard to tell from the pale slant of sunlight through the bedroom window. The days here were so much shorter than Texas this time of year.
From her cozy spot beneath the covers, she scanned what she could see of his room. It was as spartan up here as it was below. A bed, a nightstand, a tall chest of drawers she’d learned was called a Scotch dresser. There was no artwork. No photographs. Nothing of softness or the personal. She saw a few books stacked on top of the dresser and piled on the nightstand, but she couldn’t read the titles from here.
Behind her, the bathroom door opened, and she rolled over. Malcolm stopped dead in the doorway, still wearing nothing but his kilt. Even the ferocious bedhead did nothing to detract from the picture he made. She hadn’t fully taken the time to appreciate this view last night, but she took a moment to soak it in now. Long torso, powerful shoulders, strong legs. Age had done nothing but hone his physique, a fact she had to admire, given how many guys she knew his age who’d given in to the dad bod. He really was a ruggedly beautiful man. His usually neatly trimmed goatee was accented by heavy stubble she itched to stroke her fingers over.
Pleased by the idea, she smiled. “Morning.”
His poleaxed expression shifted to a fiercer version of his usual scowl. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”
So, he wasn’t pleased to have her in his bed. That shouldn’t be demoralizing, under the circumstances. Besides, the man looked really, really hung over.
“Well, I helped you to bed last night.”
“And thought you’d just help yourself into my bed?”
It was her turn to scowl. She’d been here for him last night, damn it. She didn’t deserve that accusatory tone. “No. You dragged me down when you fell onto the bed and decided you wanted a teddy bear. You wouldn’t let me go, so I decided it would be easier to just go to sleep than to try to fight you. Because in case you’ve missed the memo, you’re twice my size.”
He tunneled both hands through his silver-shot brown hair, his face twitching as he processed all of that. Disbelief. Denial. Irritation. “What the hell were you even doing here?”
Either he didn’t remember anything about last night—entirely possible since he put away a fifth of whiskey and about half a bottle of tequila—or he was embarrassed about the vulnerability she’d seen and was being a typical male and pushing her away. Either way, she wasn’t feeling particularly forgiving at the moment, considering he was looking at her like something to be scraped off his boot.
Her own temper stirring, she shoved upright. “I came to check on you. You seemed like you weren’t in a great place. Clearly, you weren’t. Neither was I. We had a few drinks. I put you to bed.” She threw the covers back and got up, gesturing to the fact that she was still fully clothed, except for the shoes she’d managed to kick off. “Nothing happened.”
“Thank fuck. You’re the last woman I need to get tangled up with.”
His vehemence was a blow to her pride.
She wasn’t any more vain than the average woman, and she certainly didn’t need everyone to like her. But she wasn’t accustomed to having kindness met with hostility.
“Excuse me?”
“A needy, opportunistic, mother-hen type. Just because the boy you raised is all grown up and disnae need you anymore, dinna think you should start in on everyone else.”
The barb landed true, and Charlotte flinched back as if he’d struck her. The ugliness of it hurt so much in the moment, she couldn’t even spar back with her usually ready temper.
She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of storming out. Wouldn’t let fall the tears stinging the backs of her eyes. With slow deliberation, she bent to pick up her shoes. Straightening her shoulders, she met his angry gaze.
“I apologize for being someone who treated you like you mattered.”
With those soft words of reproach ringing between them, she walked out.
* * *
She was supposedto spar with him. To fight back. Call him the asshole he surely was. That would have put them back into a familiar dynamic and made Malcolm feel like he was more in control.
He desperately needed to feel some control.
Instead, she’d lost several shades of color from the usual warmth of her skin before pulling in on herself, so that she actually looked her diminutive stature instead of the larger-than-life personality that usually filled a room. Her parting words had been soft, and all the more powerful for it.
I apologize for being someone who treated you like you mattered.
When was the last time anyone had done that beyond basic human decency? Not since Afton left.
Malcolm wasn’t a people pleaser, and he sure as hell didn’t need anyone to like him. But he wasn’t in the business of deliberately inflicting pain. And even through the pounding pulse of agony in his skull and the profound regret about his life choices, he recognized he’d hurt Charlotte. Deeply.
He waited for the inevitable door slam. He’d certainly earned it. But he heard only the telltale squeak of hinges before a quiet click of the latch.
Fuck.
He’d done that.
Diminished her.
Malcolm didn’t want to be that guy. That guy was a shithead who was so massively hung over, he lashed out at someone else over his own shame, simply because she was a ready target.
How could he have allowed himself to fall back into the bottle, even for one night? He knew better than to take that risk. To make that choice. And yet, here he was.
He scrubbed both hands over his face, as if that would somehow erase the haze covering his memories of last night.
Why had Charlotte come at all? Why had she stayed? Had he really not let her leave? Heat crawled up the back of his neck at the idea of what she might’ve read into that.
He’d been in such a dark headspace last night. God knew what he might have told her. What he might have exposed. The vulnerability of that made him extremely uncomfortable. But that was no excuse for what he’d said.
There was no excuse for what he’d said.
He owed Charlotte an apology.
Shite.He hated apologizing—almost as much as he hated people. But he turned toward the stairs to do the thing before he lost his nerve.
The ringing of the phone had a fresh spike of pain lancing through his skull. Swearing a blue streak, he stumbled to answer.
“What?”
A weighted silence followed his snarled greeting.
“Well, good morning to you, too.” Raleigh’s voice was dry. “You’re usually already up by now. Sorry I woke you. Are we still on for the stock auction today?”
Oh, bloody hell. He was meant to be in a truck with Raleigh all fucking day. Just what would he say if he knew Malcolm had insulted his second mother?
Malcolm could blow the auction off. He felt like warmed over death. As a rancher, Raleigh was more than qualified to pick out new stock. But this was his job, and he never shirked his duties.
“Aye. Half an hour.” He hung up and headed downstairs to do what he could to make himself more human. Charlotte’s apology would have to wait. It wasn’t like he’d be able to find the right words in his current state, anyway.
The sight of the empty whisky bottle on the coffee table filled him with self-revulsion. A part of him wanted to go out and buy more. To fall back into old, destructive patterns. To hide from himself, from the world, behind the shield of chemical numbing.
Instead, he chucked the bottle into the bin and started the coffee and some bacon. As the scent of frying meat filled the room, he downed some painkillers and another tall glass of water. The first cup of coffee he drank black, while frying up some eggs alongside the bacon. By the time he’d shoveled the lot of it in with a second cup of coffee, the headache had bumped down a few notches, such that light and sound no longer made him want to vomit. Progress.
Because he smelled like a distillery, he lurched back upstairs to shower. As the spray beat down on his bowed head, fragments of the night before began to flicker back into his consciousness. Tequila shots. A sense of kinship. Charlotte looking… sad? No, not just sad. She’d lost someone the way he’d lost Miranda, and she’d… comforted him.
Fuck. That made what he’d said all the worse.
No part of him wanted to go anywhere near this. But he knew he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t make amends. Somehow.
He was still racking his aching brain for answers when the brisk knock sounded. As he tugged open the door, a heavy sense of dread settled in his stomach as he thought about being trapped with the younger man for the next several hours. What if he wanted to talk? Worse, what if he thought this excursion was some kind of bonding exercise? Or even worse, what if he’d seen Charlotte come over here last night?
Raleigh stood on the stoop in his habitual cowboy getup of jeans, boots, flannel shirt, and hat. At the sight of Malcolm, he rocked back on his heels, one brow arching up. Wisely, he didn’t comment on Malcolm’s current state.
“You ready to go?”
Malcolm grunted an affirmative. “Just a second.”
Needing more fortification for whatever was to come, he poured the last of the coffee into a travel mug and snagged his jacket before stepping out into the chill morning. Looked like they were in for one of those rare, cloudless sunny days. Ugh. He hid his aching eyes behind sunglasses and began striding toward the truck, feeling the ground wobble a little beneath him.
Realizing he still wasn’t a hundred percent sober, Malcolm announced, “You’re driving.”
Raleigh just nodded and heading for the driver’s side door. “Okay. Let’s get rolling.”