7. Chapter 7 Bree
Chapter 7: Bree
I needed a drink.
After everything, the roof, moving in with Scott, feeling like I was teetering on the edge of something I couldn't name, a stiff drink felt like the only reasonable solution.
While Scott was still outside on the porch, probably brooding or whatever it was he did to avoid feelings, I decided to explore his kitchen. It was exactly what I expected, functional, no-frills, and stocked with the basics. Tucked away in the back of a cabinet, I found a dusty bottle of scotch.
I wasn’t much of a drinker, but tonight called for exceptions.
I poured myself a tumbler. A big one. The first sip burned, but it was warm, and the heat curled through me and before I knew it, the glass was empty. So, I poured another.
The door creaked open behind me, and I turned to see Scott stepping back inside. His eyes immediately found the glass in my hand, then the bottle on the counter.
He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t peg you for a scotch drinker.”
I shrugged, feeling the pleasant fuzz of the alcohol settling into my limbs. “Desperate times.”
He grunted, that signature sound of his, and stepped closer. His gaze lingered on my face for a moment, before he grabbed another glass and poured himself a drink.
We stood there for a few seconds, sipping and not talking. The fire crackled behind us, casting a warm glow over the room. The tension was still there, let’s face it, it had been growing steadily since I moved back to Misty, but the scotch took the edge off.
“Guess it’s official,” I said. “I’m homeless.”
Scott frowned, his jaw tightening. “It’s temporary. We’ll fix the place up. You’ll be back in there soon.”
“We?” I teased, smirking over the rim of my glass. “You’re really committing to this whole ‘take care of Bree’ thing, huh?”
He didn’t smile. “I promised Jake.”
Of course. Jake. Always Jake. I grabbed the bottle and moved to the couch. “Come on, mountain man. Sit and drink with me.”
He hesitated but eventually joined me. His weight made the cushions dip, and for a few moments, we drank in comfortable silence. Unfortunately, I kept drinking, and maybe it was the scotch, or maybe it was the warmth of the fire, or maybe it was the fact that Scott Fergus had always been the man I wasn’t supposed to want, but I started to feel bold.
The more I drank, the closer I shifted toward him. Until at some point, my head rested on his shoulder, and his arm was draped along the back of the couch, fingers brushing against me lightly.
I don’t know when it happened, but my eyelids got heavy, and the last thing I remember was nuzzling into his side, breathing in his scent that was just... Scott.
Safe.
Warm.
Mine, if I let myself dream for just a little while.