CHAPTER FOUR
Raina
“I’m all right, Mom. I promise,” Marco said over the phone, as I carried my bag and several bottles of wine up the stairs to the room I had to share with the biggest jerk on the planet. “Aunt Gabrielle has me sleeping on Damon’s floor. It’ll be fun.”
“I’m sure it will be, buddy. I just don’t like being away from you.”
“Just stay safe, Mom.”
“I love you, sweetheart. Sweet dreams.”
“Love you too. See you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight.”
I hung up with my child just as I reached the landing, then I made my way down the hall toward the honeymoon suite.
Of course, McEvoy and I would wind up sharing a room with one bed.
Of fucking course. Because the universe was testing me.
There was no other explanation for it. I was being tested for some unknown reason.
Was it to see if I would commit murder? We were all capable of it under the right circumstances.
Or was it to see if I would take my own life?
Or maybe it was to see if I could drink two bottles of wine and not wind up with alcohol poisoning? It was really anybody’s guess.
I reached the room and slid the key into the lock, opening it to the sound of the shower running.
Of fucking course he would jump in the shower first. There was absolutely no chivalry with the bearded Neanderthal that was Jagger McEvoy.
What the hell kind of name was Jagger anyway?
Were his parents fans of the Rolling Stones?
Did they lose a bet? Or did they just run out of boy names since he was boy number five?
They just closed their eyes and pointed at a random name in a baby book?
I mean, sure, it wasn’t the worst name in the world, it just seemed like the worst since it was attached to one of the worst human beings.
The room wasn’t big by any stretch of the imagination.
It was claustrophobically small, actually.
The bed was more like a double than a queen and had two tiny-ass, white nightstands on either side.
A small, shabby-chic white vanity—painted in the same style as the nightstands—with a chair was next to a tallboy dresser painted the same way.
There was a bay window with a four-foot-long seating area adorned with so many beach-themed throw pillows I stopped counting after I got to five.
I picked up Jagger’s bag from where it rested open on the luggage rack and replaced it with mine.
I dropped his bag on the floor, then went to the mini fridge in the narrow closet and stowed the wine bottles.
Apparently, we had the same idea about getting drunk, because he’d already filled it with a bunch of his family’s beer.
Typical. He took up most of the fridge space too.
Asshat. I pulled out a few of his bottles to make room for my bottles.
Like the army of throw pillows, the linens in the room were also beach-themed.
With a beige spray of seagrass on an off-white background, the duvet and matching pillow shams also matched the drapes.
The carpet, however, was actually hardwood, aside from the sea-foam-green runner at the foot of the bed.
I glanced at my watch. How long was he going to be in that fucking shower for? Until tomorrow?
He wasn’t the one covered in vomit and seawater.
Well, there was no sense waiting until after my shower to start drinking. I unscrewed the cap from the Moscato I brought in. It was one of my favorites. Paired with a juicy strawberry or a piece of pineapple on a warm summer day and I was in my happy place.
I took a few long pulls off the bottle, hoping that the alcohol would settle the rage building and burning inside of me.
I didn’t want to sit down anywhere because I was soaking wet and filthy.
It was past quiet time at the inn, and I didn’t want to annoy Lenora any more by asking her if I could do some laundry.
I’d just have to wash my clothes in the shower and hang them to dry.
I wandered around the room, drinking wine and trying not to imagine what Jagger might look like in the shower. I was already halfway through the bottle when the shower finally shut off.
Gathering my pajamas and toiletry bag from my small carry-on suitcase, I stood just outside the door waiting for the king of jerks to emerge.
I tapped my foot for good measure. The wine was making its way through my bloodstream and dissolving the remaining fucks I had left to give about maintaining any civility with the youngest Brew Brother.
At long last, probably after six or seven years, the door opened and out he sauntered wearing nothing but a fucking towel around his waist, while a torso designed by the good Lord above remained damp and glistening.
I could easily wash all my laundry on his stomach and probably get it cleaned better than the machine I had at home.
Fuck. Me .
His smirk and snort snapped me out of my Moscato-fueled fugue state, and I growled, which also served to shut my mouth.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I’d been gaping.
“Did you leave any hot water?” I asked, pushing past him.
“Ice queens don’t need hot water,” he said, grabbing his bag off the floor and tossing it onto the bed. “They prefer cold plunges.”
I slammed the bathroom door with another growl, chugged the rest of the wine bottle—since it was still in my hand—and peeled out of my wet, vomit-covered clothes. The bathroom was warm and steamy, and smelled delicious. Like manly body wash.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I really hated how much I liked the smell. Because it was obviously Jagger’s own stuff, since the body wash included with the place smelled like artificial lavender. I loved real lavender, but the cheap artificial stuff was gross.
Luckily, I also brought my own body wash.
I turned on the tap for the shower. Thank god, that selfish dick left me some hot water.
I scrubbed myself from head to toe, giving my hair a really thorough clean, along with my pants and the hoodie I’d been wearing beneath my open jacket when my puke came flying back at me.
Once my fingers resembled raisins, I turned off the water and seriously considered parading myself out into the room in front of him in nothing but a towel, since two could absolutely play that game.
Ultimately though, I decided against it and just changed into my flannel bunny-rabbit pajamas.
They were dark-blue with cute, little, white bunnies nibbling on carrots all over them.
Marco bought them for me last year for Christmas and I absolutely loved them.
I put my dark-red hair into two Dutch braids down the back, pulled on my last remaining pair of dry, clean socks, and braced myself for the beast on the other side of the door.
I now had an entire bottle of wine in my bloodstream and was feeling rather tipsy. Which was better than murderous, since I was seriously contemplating putting a pillow over Jagger’s face before I got warm in the shower.
He sat on the bed up against the headboard, a beer in one hand and a book in the other.
Those stupid, round, wire-rimmed glasses were back on his face, and goddammit, they made my lower belly clench.
At least he wore more clothes now. Plaid flannel pajama pants and a tight, black V-neck shirt that looked like it was painted on. His feet were bare though.
My eyes refused to move from his feet. His ankles were crossed and motherfucker … his feet were massive. I couldn’t get over the size of them. They were about as big as a newborn, for god’s sake.
“What the hell’s your problem?” he asked, lifting his gaze from the pages of his book.
I blinked a few times, pulled in a deep breath, and shook my head. “Nothing.”
Tipping his beer to his lips, he rolled his eyes. “Wash all the chunks from your hair there, Elsa?”
Elsa?
“There’s beer in the fridge if you want something besides wine,” he offered, jerking his chin toward the mini fridge before glancing at the empty wine bottle in my hand. His brows rose. “I see.”
Growling, mostly inaudibly, I went to the fridge and grabbed a beer—the cranberry and pomegranate lager—and twisted off the cap. He continued to watch me as I took a sip.
Cautiously, I moved over to the bed and sat down on the opposite corner, ensuring that we could not be any further apart unless I was on the floor.
My eyes zeroed back in on his feet.
Shit.
I needed to find somewhere else to look besides at those monsters.
Because not only were they huge, they were also nice, actually.
And I was absolutely not a foot person. I’m sure I had kinks.
Everybody did. But feet weren’t one of mine.
However, I also knew gnarly feet when I saw them, and Jagger’s feet weren’t gnarly.
I really wished they were though. It would have made things a hell of a lot easier.
But no, he had to have non-ugly feet. With long, nice-shaped toes, trimmed nails, and even the light dusting of hair on the tops and knuckles of each toe was kind of … sexy.
Look somewhere else, you drunk freak .
Blinking and shaking my head, I scanned the room, only for my gaze to land on the cover of his book.
It was some sci-fi thing with aliens and a spaceship on the cover.
I knew he was into sci-fi from our book club, but for some reason I didn’t think he actually read the books we talked about.
He struck me as the kind of guy who went onto Wikipedia the night before our book club met and read the notes, and then just pretended to like sci-fi books so he sounded smart and interesting.
I took another long swig of the beer. It was delicious. I hated that I liked it.
However, it wasn’t like it was Jagger’s beer. He wasn’t the brewmaster. Clint was. And I liked Clint. So I didn’t hate that I liked it as much anymore.