Chapter 9
Aspen
Iwoke with a splitting headache, dry-mouthed and stiff all over.
For a second I panicked, certain I’d passed out on the bar’s sticky floor.
But instead of beer stench and neon, the world was soft lamplight and the lavender scent of my own pillow.
Quilt bunched around my knees, flannel sheets twisted at my waist. I blinked, squinting against the morning, and found myself alone in my bed—alone except for the shadow slumped against the side of the mattress, knees drawn up, arms crossed like some kind of sentry.
Papa sat on the floor beside me, head tipped back against the bedframe, breathing slow and heavy with sleep. His beard rough, hair mashed into strange little wings above his ears, arms crossed like he could keep watch even in his dreams. The sight nearly made me forget my hangover.
Nearly.
My mouth tasted like a biscuit left out in the rain, and my tongue was so dry I could’ve used it to sand a tabletop.
But it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest as the memories of last night started coming back in ugly, overlapping fragments: the bar, the music, the drinks I’d pounded like a woman on a mission to forget her own name.
The sick, humiliating lurch of panic when that man had grabbed me.
Papa’s voice, hot and furious, followed by the cold reality of me puking my guts out in front of him.
My face burned, even before I tried to sit up.
I risked a peek at the digital clock: not quite seven.
I’d been asleep for maybe five hours. Or maybe forever.
I let my head flop back onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling, mind racing the way it always did when my body was too tired to keep up.
This was supposed to be a new start. I’d tried so hard to fit in, to be normal, and now here I was—helpless as a baby, with the one person I liked best in the world literally propping up the side of my bed.
Why would anyone want to take care of me?
I could still see the look on his face as I’d leaned over the toilet, the way he’d held my hair back and wiped the sweat from my neck, never once looking disgusted.
It should have made me feel safe. Instead, I wanted to dig a hole in the mattress and crawl in.
I closed my eyes, letting my thoughts twist around themselves like a bowl of overcooked spaghetti.
All the ways I’d failed last night, all the ways I’d been a disappointment; not just to Papa, but to myself, to Mama, to anyone who ever thought I was meant for something more than being the town’s pity project.
I needed to get up and use the bathroom, but I couldn’t bring myself to disturb him. Besides, what if he woke up and saw me? What if he tried to talk to me about last night, about how reckless I’d been, or how he had to swoop in and rescue me like some battered puppy?
You don’t deserve a man like him; I thought. He’s a war hero, an Alpha’s best friend, a walking mountain with a heart bigger than Texas. You’re just…a defective little witch who can’t even hold her liquor.
I tried to hold still, but the need to pee became impossible to ignore. I eased my leg out from under the quilt, careful as a burglar, but of course the bed frame creaked. Papa’s eyes snapped open. Even groggy, his gaze was sharp as a blade.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” he said. His voice was a sandpaper rumble, softer than I’d ever heard it. “You been awake long?”
I shook my head, then instantly regretted it. “No, sir,” I croaked. “Just now.”
He smirked, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You need the bathroom, don’t you?”
I flushed so hard I thought my ears would pop. “Um. Yes, sir.”
He stood, slow and deliberate, then held out a hand for me. “Come on. I can hear your mind racing from here.”
I took his hand, expecting him to yank me to my feet, but instead he cradled my palm like it was made of blown glass. I slid off the bed and instantly wobbled. His arm caught me around the waist, steady as a fencepost. He walked me to the door, only letting go when I reached the threshold.
“Take your time,” he said. “I’ll make coffee.”
I closed the door and leaned against it for a second, trying not to let the wave of gratitude drown me.
I took care of business, washed my face, and stared at the girl in the mirror: hair in a fright, skin ghost-pale except for the flush in my cheeks, eyes puffy and rimmed in red.
I splashed water on my face again, hoping to trick myself into feeling alive.
I opened the medicine cabinet, found the bottle of ibuprofen, and shook out three. I dry-swallowed them, knowing I’d need at least that many if I was going to survive this day.
By the time I cracked the door, the smell of coffee was already drifting down the hall. I shuffled toward the kitchen in my t-shirt and nothing else, only remembering halfway that the shirt only hit me mid-thigh. I almost turned around, but the smell of breakfast stopped me in my tracks.
Papa was at the stove, tossing scrambled eggs in a pan like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Bacon sizzled beside it, and the coffeepot gurgled on the counter.
He’d found my favorite mug—blue, with a little pink cow design—and poured me a cup without asking how I took it. He knew. He’d remembered.
I ducked my head and slid into the nearest chair. My heart was thumping so loud I could hear it in my ears. I wrapped my hands around the mug and tried not to look at him.
“Eggs’ll be ready in a minute,” he said. “Toast is on the way.”
I just nodded, then sipped. The coffee was perfect—creamy, sweet, just the way Mama used to make it when she knew I’d needed some comfort. I felt a lump rise in my throat, and I did my best to swallow it down.
Papa set a plate in front of me: eggs, bacon, two slices of toast with jam. He took the chair opposite, watching me with those unreadable gray eyes.
“Eat something,” he said. “You’ll feel better.”
I took a bite of toast, chewed, and almost started crying. The sweetness of the jam, the warmth of the bread—simple, solid, like being anchored back to earth.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted out, unable to hold it in any longer. “About last night. About all of it.”
He tilted his head, considering. “What are you sorry for exactly?”
I stared at my plate. “For making a mess of everything. For needing you to bail me out. For being—” I almost said “a disappointment,” but the word stuck. “—for being a pain in the ass.”
He snorted. “Sunshine, if you think puking your guts out is gonna scare me off, you don’t know me at all.”
I looked up, surprised.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I’ve seen men shot, stabbed, and set on fire. I’ve seen the inside of more toilets than I care to count. None of that even comes close to what you did last night.”
I winced. “You mean being a drunk idiot?”
He shook his head. “No. Standing up for yourself. Telling that asshole off. Trying to be brave, even when you were scared shitless.”
I stared at him; the words stung more than I expected. “I didn’t feel brave.”
“Most people don’t,” he said. “But you were. I’m proud of you.”
I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I wiped them away with the heel of my hand. “I don’t know why you’d be proud of me.”
He gave me a look equal parts exasperation and affection. “Because you fought for yourself. And because you let me help you.”
That did it. The tears came, hot and quick, and for a moment I couldn’t even look at him. I just stared at my eggs, letting them go cold, and tried to remember the last time anyone had said they were proud of me.
He reached across the table and put his hand over mine. “You don’t have to do this alone,” he said, voice low. “Not anymore.”
I nodded, breath hitching.
“Finish your breakfast,” he said, voice soft but firm. “You’ve got a long day ahead.”
I ate, slow but steady, until my stomach stopped twisting. The pain in my head faded to a dull ache, and my body felt almost normal again.
Papa cleared the plates, rinsed them, and stacked them in the sink. Then he walked to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out a bottle of Gatorade.
“For you,” he said, unscrewing the cap and sliding it over.
I took it, sipped, and smiled. “Thank you,” I said, voice barely more than a whisper.
He smiled back, then nodded toward the hallway. “Go shower if you want. I’ll be here.”
I nodded, then padded off to the bathroom, desperate to scrub the last of the shame and sweat from my skin.
I turned on the shower; the bathroom steamed up. I saw that he’d left a fresh set of my clothes—underwear, bra, and a long-sleeved dress I liked—on the counter. I stared at the little stack, a fist of feeling squeezing my chest.
Nobody had ever done something like that for me. Not even Mama, who loved me more than the sun loved the sky.
I peeled off my shirt and stepped into the shower, letting the water run as hot as I could stand it. I closed my eyes and let the spray pummel me, washing away the guilt and the fear, the memory of strange hands and dark voices, the old ache of never quite being enough.
I scrubbed my hair and scrubbed every inch of my skin desperate to start fresh. When I got out, the towel was still warm. I dried off, then picked up the underwear and pressed it to my face, feeling the tears come again. Not sad tears, but something softer. Gratitude, maybe. Or hope.
I got dressed, brushed and dried my hair, and went to face the day.
This time, I didn’t feel defective at all.
I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could be someone worth loving.
I found him right where I’d left him, leaning against the kitchen counter with a mug of coffee cradled between both hands, eyes fixed on the empty parking lot outside my window.
He looked like a man who could out-wait the sunrise if he put his mind to it, but when he saw me, his entire face softened.
Maybe it was just the hangover, but the sight made my pulse trip over itself.