Chapter 2
two
BONNIE
I was pretty sure there was a red-bellied woodpecker inside my head, going to town on whatever brain matter was left in there.
With a hand to my temple, I sat up shakily in a room I didn’t recognize.
I supposed I should have been more alarmed, but I couldn’t really envision the owner of this place being a serial killer, what with the glass of water and bottle of pain relievers sitting on the bedside table.
And all the framed amateur watercolor landscape paintings on the walls.
Also, the stack of library books on the dresser.
I was on the waitlist for the second one from the top.
After I swallowed two pills from the previously unopened plastic bottle, my eyes snagged on a leather jacket hanging on the back of the bedroom door. Embarrassment had me groaning quietly as hazy memories flooded my system along with a pretty good idea of who that jacket belonged to.
Jack Ellis was every inch the small-town bad boy, except now he was in his early thirties.
He was a few years older than me, but we’d gone to school together.
Me, an overachieving goody-goody. Him, somehow both popular and a loner who hadn’t known I existed.
I’d seen him around town since high school, of course.
We actually played in the same softball league.
But Jack didn’t know me, and all my knowledge of him was based on gossip and leftover teenage memories.
Currently, I was desperately trying to remember how I’d ended up in his bed.
A glance beneath the covers revealed the clothes I’d worn to the bar last night. My dress was rumpled, but my underwear was still present and accounted for.
I guess it wasn’t so far-fetched that I’d ended up with Jack. He worked as a bartender at Magnolia. But when I tried to pull up the faces of the folks serving me drinks last night, only Kayla’s and Sasha’s came to mind.
The memory of a flavorful samosa rattled around for a moment before abandoning me.
I finished off the glass of water and figured it was time to face whatever hell I’d wrought.
This was what I got for trying to do something reckless and impulsive for once. A blinding hangover and humiliation so painful it rivaled my current headache.
I may not have behaved responsibly last night, what with trying to celebrate my divorce by finding some stranger to hook up with, but at least I’d taken myself to Magnolia rather than Mattie B’s.
The fancy leafer bar had really been the only option.
If I’d gone to Mattie B’s, I would have run into no less than five people I knew, probably at least one a member of my family.
I was pretty sure the ground would have opened up and swallowed me whole if I’d encountered one of my students’ families while trolling for a one-night stand.
But the longer I’d sat on that leather barstool at Magnolia, the harder it had been to convince myself that going home with someone was what I really wanted.
That sticking it to a husband—an ex-husband, I mentally corrected—who didn’t even want me, might not have been the best way forward.
So I’d ordered a refill to loosen up. And then I’d gotten friendly, which was what always happened when I drank too much. Well, that and crying.
It didn’t matter because I’d sailed right past tipsy, fun, and looking to get laid and straight into plastered territory.
God, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had so much alcohol.
Maybe one of the very few college parties I’d attended during undergrad.
When you’d married young and your husband was back in your hometown, you typically drove the hour and a half home every weekend to see him.
College parties had been few and far between for bright-eyed, optimistic coed Bonnie.
Now I just felt worn down around the edges.
Like a penny that had been in circulation too long, weathered, lackluster, and not worth picking up if you saw it on the street.
Also, there was the hangover thing. My head pounded and my belly churned, and there was a very real possibility I was going to vomit in the near future.
A vague recollection of memories assaulted me. A clean bathroom with white subway tile, a fuzzy gray bathmat, and a pair of firm thighs under my cheek.
Maybe I’d already done plenty of vomiting.
Cupping my palm in front of my face, I breathed into it. My eyes watered, and I gagged a little. Yep, I had definitely spent a portion of last night puking.
That was confirmed when I opened the ajar bedroom door and spied the dim bathroom across the way.
Another memory came the longer I stared. A cool washcloth on the back of my neck and a deep, soothing voice in my ear.
I fought another mortified groan. Jack had been forced to take care of me.
Last night, I had clearly been the worst sort of person: an inconvenience.
I hated—hated—putting people out. That was why I always made sure I was on time, didn’t ask for favors, obsessively washed my hands so I didn’t get sick, and never let myself be a nuisance.
The only thing worse than being an inconvenience was being a politician or maybe a male podcaster.
With a deep breath, I peeked around the corner of the doorframe into the hallway. To the right was a closed door. And to the left was—shoot. I pulled my head back distressingly quickly, fighting nausea. If I was a turtle, I would have been back inside my shell.
Despite my effort to remain unseen, a deep voice called out a moment later, “Come on out, Clyde.”
I frowned and then stepped into the hallway. “It’s Clark, actually.” Jensen, technically, but most people in town still thought of me as part of the Clark bunch.
Jack was right where I’d briefly spied him. In a comfy-looking chair, relaxed and sipping coffee in a masculine living room.
“Nah, it’s your new nickname,” he countered around a sip of caffeine. “We worked it out last night. Don’t you remember?”
I swallowed awkwardly. “Afraid not.”
The coffee smelled amazing. Perhaps my gaze was a little lusty on his mug because Jack tipped his head toward the kitchen. “There’s half a pot left. Help yourself.”
Help myself.
I’d been helping myself and everyone else for as long as I could remember.
When I stood there too long, contemplating my pathetic existence, Jack cleared his throat.
That got my feet moving. I hurried into the kitchen.
The floor plan was open, and only a small island separated the two rooms. There wasn’t room for a kitchen table, but all the appliances were top-of-the-line stainless steel numbers that I would have handed over my secret recipe for beef Stroganoff to own.
A clean striped mug was already sitting out on the dark granite countertop, next to sugar in a ramekin and a pint of half-and-half.
My hand paused on the mug, wondering if Danny had ever gotten a mug out for me.
Or topped off my glass or anticipated any of my needs.
He sure as hell had never put them ahead of his own.
I shook off those bitter ex-wife thoughts and poured some coffee into the existential-crisis mug.
Then I dumped in a healthy spoonful of sugar, followed by an even healthier splash of half-and-half.
I stirred the sweet, creamy mixture with the sugar spoon and then washed it in the sink with the dish detergent and brush stored neatly in the nearby sink caddy.
I placed the spoon in the drying rack before picking up my coffee and returning to the living room.
My instinct had been to leave immediately.
Actually, my instincts were ill-prepared for this situation.
In my wildest dreams, I could not have imagined a scenario where I got wasted in public and then went home with the town’s motorcycle-riding bad boy, whom I may or may not have slept with but definitely vomited in front of.
If I considered it much longer, I was going to spiral. I would pour this cup of hot coffee over my head before I allowed myself to have a panic attack in front of Jack Ellis, though.
I engaged my lifelong civility and Southern manners and sat down on the leather couch so I could apologize for my behavior in his home and his place of business (I vaguely recalled people shouting “Chug!” while I obliged wholeheartedly).
My behind sank comfortably onto the smooth surface.
Was this where Jack had slept while I’d occupied his bed?
Or had he been in there with me and woken up first?
When I managed to gather my nerve, I looked over to the man in the armchair. Jack was back to drinking his coffee and ignoring me. He was reading a thick hardcover book, and my gaze briefly snagged on the way his fingers turned a page.
Another memory, sharp as a thumbtack, hit me the longer I stared. A calloused touch. Fingers oh-so-gently brushing the hair away from my face and a low voice asking, What do you need?
I swallowed, startled by the remembered question. It was so . . . direct and . . . something else. Most people asked what you wanted or how they could help. What do you need? That put to mind care and comfort, priorities and unwavering focus.
But that was silly. Jack didn’t even know me.
I forced my attention away from his long fingers resting on the page of his book. But then my gaze caught unexpectedly on the slim, round wire-framed reading glasses perched on his nose.
Looking away, I blinked several times while my brain misfired. Were bad boys farsighted?
I took another sip. The coffee was sweet—just the way I liked it—and it helped make my thoughts more coherent. For a moment, they’d simply been wheeze-filled internalizing . . . glasses and jaw scruff and bare feet and hot motorcycle man before fizzling out into the mental equivalent of drooling.
“Thank you,” I blurted inelegantly. “For your help last night. I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused and for the way I conducted myself at Magnolia. It was unbecoming.”