The Kiss Lottery

Chapter 12 Everly

Chapter 12

Everly

I wake up feeling like a truck hit me. My head throbs, my mouth tastes like sandpaper, and my memory is fuzzy. I roll over and notice that I’m in my bra and panties. Weird. Usually, I take off my bra, put on a shirt, then crash.

I stretch and sit up. “What the heck happened last night?” I mutter. I recall Beckett being my match—then vomiting. Ugh. I bury my face in my hands.

Still muttering, I pull on a pair of joggers, a tee, and an old cardigan that comes to my knees. After washing the leftover makeup off and brushing my teeth, I feel almost human.

I pad out to the den and let out a garbled shriek.

What the hell is Beckett doing sprawled out on my couch in his boxers?

Potato chips are scattered across his chest, and Murder is curled up next to his armpit. Even weirder, the coffee table is full of chicken bones. Not only that but the smell of something burnt lingers in the air.

“That was some scary weed,” I murmur as I tiptoe closer. He stirs slightly, mumbling in his sleep. I notice the way his luxurious black lashes rest against his cheeks.

I stare at his pillowy lips, then move to the thick dark stubble on his jawline. His chest is a work of art, unfortunately, toned and sculpted, all the way down to his abs. Murder opens one eye, gives me a smirk, then goes back to her nap. Traitor.

“Beckett,” I hiss as I poke his scruffy cheek. “Wake up!”

He groans and slowly opens his eyes, blinking up at me. His eyebrows slant down. “Everly? What are you doing in my house?”

“This is my house. What are you doing here? What happened?”

He sits up, dislodging a few chips. “I, uh, we went through the drive-through at KFC. Then you wanted a Coke from Sonic. You like their ice. Did you eat already?”

He’s half-asleep. As I glance at the bones, an image flashes into my head of me gnawing down on a leg. Yikes. I do go completely cavewoman when I get high.

“That was hours ago.”

“Give me a minute,” he mutters, raking a hand through his dark hair. He sits up fully and takes in that it’s really my house. He glances down at his underwear. “Oh, shit. Did we—”

I cut him off. “No. I’d remember that.”

He side-eyes me. “Yes, you would.”

My gaze shifts lower, and my face heats. There’s a situation happening in his crotch. It’s huge. “Um ...,” I call out, glancing around the room for something to distract myself with.

He grabs a throw pillow and plops it over his crotch. “I just woke up. You’ve seen me in my underwear before. Remember the fire?” Then he chuckles.

“What’s so funny?”

“You. Acting all scandalized. Like you haven’t seen a guy with morning wood before. Where are my clothes?” he says as he stands, then weaves on his feet. He stumbles; his knee bangs into the coffee table. He barks out a curse.

I wince. “Are you okay?”

“God. No. I feel like death.” He wobbles around the couch, glancing around for his clothes.

“Where did you take them off?”

He slumps, running a hand through his hair again. “I really don’t remember that part. This is ridiculous.” He pauses, looking at me with helplessness. “Seriously. Shit. Maybe the kitchen?”

I snort. “Sure, because that’s where people usually undress.”

I check the bathroom, where I find my dress and heels, but not his things.

I go into the laundry room. The washing machine door is hanging open, with a pair of socks inside. “Found some socks!” I call out.

He walks in and takes a look. “Not mine.”

“Probably a renter’s.”

We look around the kitchen, but there’s nothing. I even check the fridge.

Murder trots past us with fabric in her mouth.

“Murder’s got something,” I point out.

“Stop calling her that,” he grouches.

“You have only yourself to blame. You made me a villain, and now she’s one.”

“Whatever,” he grumbles as he follows the kitten.

I smirk as I trail behind. He’s nearly naked and searching my house like a zombie. Then, the morning light catches the definition in his back muscles, and I force myself to look away, swallowing hard.

Murder drops the fabric in front of Beckett like a trained dog. He reaches down and picks up a pair of my undies. Jesus. Dirty ones. I snatch them from him. “Those are mine.”

He does a slow walk back to the den, where he crashes down on the couch. “I drank tequila, didn’t I?”

I cross my arms, staring at the mess around us. I walk over and grab the Patrón. The one he gave me. It’s half-empty. I wave it at him. “You think?”

He looks up, his eyes taking a second to focus. “You don’t remember anything specific?”

“Bits and pieces. I’m pretty sure you ate a gummy that Troy left me.”

He groans, rubbing his temples. “Great.”

I get us both bottles of water and Tylenol. He takes the medicine, then leans back against the couch.

Since I seem to have fared better than him with a hangover, I leave him there to recover while I check the rest of the house. I do a quick walk outside, scanning the yard. Cupping my hands, I peer into his Range Rover. “Jacket and shoes! I found them!”

Of course he can’t hear me, so I go back into the den and tell him.

“I probably left them in the car because of the vomit,” he says.

“Sorry about that.”

He waves it off. “I’ve seen you do way more damage than that.”

“True.” I recall him being the one to hold back my hair plenty of times while Carson was busy being social at our parties. “Do you need more water?” I ask, trying not to stare at his scars. I trace the one on his shoulder, a longer one on his rib cage, then the marks on his knee.

He is covering his face with his hands but pops two fingers apart and catches me inspecting them. He flexes his biceps, curling his elbow as he points at a jagged scar. “You missed this one. I’ve got two screws there to keep my elbow in place. They ache every time it rains. The right side of my body is shit really. I’ll be using a cane by the time I’m fifty.”

I chew on my lips. “Everyone says you’re lucky to be alive. You must have been really terrified.”

“Did you care?”

“Of course I did. I talked to Tabby almost every day, and she kept me updated.” I frown, my brows knitting together as I take in the hurt look on his face.

He glances down, his voice low. “I was on my way to see you when I wrecked. I was going to find you at NYU.”

My stomach drops. I sink into the armchair, trying to steady myself. “What?”

His gaze drifts to the coffee table, avoiding mine. “It was Christmas break. Margo and Mom were out of town, and I didn’t have anything better to do. It was spur of the moment, you know? I wasn’t thinking clearly, just that I wanted to see you. But the snow was bad, and I ran off the road. I should’ve known better, but I was nineteen and stupid.”

I clutch the edges of my cardigan, trying to process. “But why were you coming to see me? You wouldn’t even look at me in the hallways. You—” The words catch in my throat. “You told me you never wanted to see me again.”

His head lifts, green eyes locking on to mine with a raw intensity. “Because I was an idiot. I hurt you with those words, and I regretted them every second after. I wanted to take them back, to erase the way I said it, the way your face crumpled when you heard it.”

My breath hitches. His confession crashes over me, twisting me in knots.

I don’t know where to start with what he’s just said. My mind races, trying to filter through it all, to piece together what this means after all these years. I tug at the fraying threads of my cardigan as he continues, his voice softer now.

“After the wreck, I was in the hospital for weeks. Then rehab, physical therapy. I thought about reaching out to you, I really did. But with everything that happened—the wreck, the silence between us—it felt like a sign. Like maybe I should leave it alone. Leave you alone. You’d gotten a big scholarship, and you left Rose behind. I didn’t want to complicate things for you. I just wanted you to be happy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Tears prick my eyes. “Beckett ...”

All these years, and now this—he’d been coming for me.

“Have you been happy?” he asks gently.

I shake my head, feeling confused. “Sometimes. Not like I felt when we were together.”

He obviously doesn’t know everything. I take his hand. “When I heard about your accident, I missed a final to catch a plane. I talked a nurse into letting me see you in the ICU. They were strict about the visiting rules, but I explained that I’d flown from New York.” My voice wavers as the memories of him in a coma flood back. “You were heavily sedated and all wrapped up in bandages. I held your hand, and I stayed with you for as long as they’d let me, then flew back.”

He looks stunned. Shocked. “I—I didn’t know. No one told me. It took my mom a bit to get to me because she was in Italy.”

I shake my head. “No one saw me except the nurses. I was there for two days, but it doesn’t matter. Explain why you said you never wanted to see me. I know it’s more than just the diary thing.”

“Everly, I—”

His cell phone rings, and we both start. I realize I was leaning forward, my body getting closer to his, but I pull back as he fishes his cell out of the cushions. “I have to get this,” he mumbles, standing up to answer. “Hey. No, no, I’m fine.”

I’m relieved for the distraction. I walk to the kitchen to get more water, trying to steady my racing heart.

He gets off the phone and heads toward me, a determined look in his eyes. He leans against the kitchen counter, ready to resume our conversation. I don’t say anything, just look at him. He starts to speak, but I raise a hand to cut him off. Wait a minute ...

“Do you smell that?” I sniff the air. There’s definitely an odor. I noticed it earlier but got distracted by Beckett on my couch.

“Yeah? I assumed it was old chicken bones.” He looks around the room, then curses and rushes to the den and the fireplace.

I follow him, my mouth gaping when I see the charred bits of what looks like clothing. “Is that, um, your pants?” I see scraps of blue fabric. “And shirt?”

“Shiiiiit.” He bends down and inspects the fireplace, then sits back on the floor with his head in his hands.

A memory flashes through my mind. “Truth or dare,” I murmur.

“What?”

“We played truth or dare. You wouldn’t take the truth I offered you, so I told you to strip. On the next round, you still wouldn’t take the truth, and I told you to burn your clothes.”

He lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Evil. Do you know how much that suit cost?”

“You were pretty determined to prove you’d do it.”

He groans. “What was the truth I avoided?”

I think back, trying to piece it together. “I think I asked you who was the last person you slept with.”

His eyes narrow. “And I avoided that why?”

“I don’t know, Beckett. Maybe you didn’t want to tell me.”

“The last person I slept with was a woman I was seeing in Nashville. It was six months ago. And for your information, and what I bet you were digging for, I never slept with Abigail.”

“Okay, thanks for sharing so readily. Maybe you just wanted to be naked last night.”

“Great. What was the second truth?”

I shrug delicately as I look at my nails. “Wouldn’t you like to know ...”

He crosses his arms and widens his legs in a defensive stance, which only makes him look sexier. “Fine. Did I do anything incriminating? Why can’t I remember it?”

“Tequila. It’s your nemesis,” I say sweetly. “Look on the bright side, it makes a great story for your next book. Be sure to get my height and weight right when you describe your new villain.”

He throws his arms up. “Will you please let the villain thing go!”

“No!” I snip back. “It really hurt.”

He groans and rubs his forehead. “I didn’t think you’d even read the damn thing.”

“Lie! You knew if you wrote it, I’d read it.”

“Fuck! Fine, fine. I’m sorry!”

“I’m forever a terrible person in your book.”

His face falls a little. “Everly, no, no, it’s not like that, never. Please don’t think that.”

His torn expression gets to me. “How can I make it up to you?”

Another flash of last night comes. The second truth I asked for was why did he put me in his book. He refused to answer. Fine, fine, I’ll let it go.

“Are you really sorry about using me as a character?” I ask, my hands on my hips. Honestly, I’m not that upset about it. Yes, it hurt a lot at first, but the more I mulled it over, the more I realized that it meant that he truly couldn’t forget me. I was still there, somewhere, in his heart.

“Will you do something for me to make up for it, no matter what it is?” I say.

His eyes narrow as I lean closer, stopping inches from him. I tilt my head back, feeling feisty, enjoying having him anxious to please me. “Well?”

“Depends on what you want.” His voice is huskier. His eyes go to half mast as he searches my face. “What is it?” He leans down until we’re nose to nose.

“Something that is so awesome I’ll be able to feel the sincerity.”

He lets out a frustrated sigh. “You want me to hire a skywriter?”

I shrug, enjoying his discomfort.

He shakes his head, clearly exasperated, but I know his brain is already spinning, trying to come up with something. “You’re impossible, you know that?” He dips his head dramatically, but not before I see the smile.

I slap his butt. “Why don’t you take a shower? Go on, shoo. Get in there and scrub off the chicken grease. I’ll put some clothes on the toilet seat.”

He backs away from me toward the bathroom. “You’re starting to scare me.”

“Bye. Enjoy the hot water, but leave some for me.” With my hands against his chest, I shove him the rest of the way into the bathroom, then shut the door and lean against it.

Oh, boy. I’m glad he’s out of sight so I can settle my heart.

After a few minutes, I knock on the bathroom door. “Beckett?”

“Yeah?” His voice is muffled by the water.

“I’ve got your clothes.”

“It better not be a dress,” he grumbles.

I push the door open to a steamy room with the smell of my coconut bodywash. Smirking, I glance at the baggy joggers I dug out from the back of my closet. They have “RHS” on them for Rose High School—they’re something he loaned me back in the day. Finding a shirt was harder, so I ended up with an XL hoodie from a field trip we took to the Nashville Zoo our senior year. There’s a monkey eating a banana on it.

I leave the clothes on the toilet seat. As I open the door to leave, another thought hits me. “Hey, your degree’s in English, right?”

“Can’t I shower in peace?”

He doesn’t mean it. I can tell by the timbre of his voice. I lean against the wall, feeling that old camaraderie slipping back in.

“And yes, English and creative writing,” he says.

“Last night you kept saying you were the woodcutter and I was the fairy. Something about a folktale.” I distinctly recall him getting up and pretending to chop wood in his boxers while I rolled on the floor laughing.

I peek at the shower curtain, waiting for his reply, but there’s nothing. “Hmm? Does it ring a bell?”

“Nope,” comes his terse reply.

“Ah, okay. I’ll have to look it up.”

“Everly!” he calls out, but I’m already shutting the door.