Chapter 13
Presley
Whoever said alcohol makes you sleep better was full of crap.
Granted, there were the first couple of hours after I landed in bed when I slept like the dead.
I’d woken up a little after two in the morning, sweating and nauseated.
I’d gotten up, thrown up everything in my stomach, felt relatively better afterward, then tossed, turned, and sweated liquor all night.
I reached for my nightstand and turned off the alarm I’d somehow remembered to set at some point in the night. West and I were starting work at the shop at eight this morning, and I wasn’t going to miss it.
“You got this,” I tried to convince myself.
I wasn’t in the habit of drinking myself stupid. Wine was a regular part of my life, but I could count on one hand the number of times I’d gotten so drunk.
“Might as well wait until you’re lusting after your contractor, then be sure to drink yourself out of control when he’s nearby,” I muttered as I rolled to my back amid tangles of comforter and sheet. “Oh, and strip off all your clothes while you’re at it. Idiot.”
I remembered everything from last night.
The way I’d been having so much fun, dancing, meeting people, answering questions about The Bean Counter.
To my surprise, I hadn’t felt at all like an outsider but more like this town was welcoming me.
Maybe because I’d be bringing them coffee, but that was okay.
Then when I was dancing with Ty, the basketball coach, the light, flying-high feeling had turned to spinning, dizziness, and a cold sweat.
I’d hoped a few minutes of fresh air would help, but instead I’d needed to be carried up the damn stairs.
As embarrassing as that was, I could also remember how safe and cared for I’d felt in West’s arms. Those were foreign sensations for me. Normally I took care of myself.
I groaned at that moment of weakness, then sat up in bed, taking inventory.
Nausea gone. Head pounding like nobody’s business.
One out of two wasn’t bad.
Tylenol, coffee, and donuts. Those would get me through what promised to be a day of hellacious physical labor.
I wasn’t going to slack off though. We’d laid out a timeline, and there was no room for hungover laziness.
I couldn’t wait for opening day, but the only way to get there was, well, drywalling today, to be exact.
I rolled out of bed and stripped the sheets that smelled like a drunk girl, then tossed them in the hall to wash as soon as I showered.
While the shower heated, I popped some Tylenol and guzzled a bottle of cold water. Let the rehydrating begin. Then I set my coffee machine to brew an extra-large travel mug of a Costa Rican roast I was sampling for the shop.
I scrubbed the alcohol-heavy sweat off my skin, washed my hair, and felt halfway human by the time I stepped out of the shower. I had twenty minutes till I needed to be at the shop, and though West had a key, I didn’t intend to be late.
In record time, I started the bedding in the washing machine and made the bed up fresh with clean sheets, knowing I’d be too tired when I got home tonight.
I threw on soft, comfortable cotton shorts, a plain tank, and an unbuttoned chambray shirt with sneakers, and pulled my wet hair into a loose ponytail at my nape.
On the way, I made a quick stop at Sugar for a dozen donuts, intending to shove at least two down my throat in the next few minutes.
I parked in the lot behind the gym and hurried down the sidewalk to my shop, my headache milder but still there with every step.
When I got closer, I spotted West inside, already working.
As much as I’d wanted to beat him here, I couldn’t deny the thrill that spiked through me at the sight of him.
I hadn’t scared him off completely last night then.
“Morning,” I called out as I entered.
West was in the office area, which was framed, with electric and plumbing lines run, waiting to be closed in with drywall today. He set down a large sheet of drywall, turned around, and watched me approach, his brows up.
“Hi?” I said as I went through the doorway to the office, suddenly wondering if we weren’t okay after my dumb moves last night.
A smile slowly crossed his face as he looked me over. Then he shook his head. “Didn’t figure I’d see you until noon at the earliest.”
“You said eight.” I looked at the time on my phone. “It’s three minutes after. I would’ve been on time if there wasn’t someone in front of me at the bakery.”
I held the box of donuts out for him to take while I set my phone and coffee out of the way. His eyes were still on me when I opened the box and took a chocolate cake donut.
He chose a maple-frosted, then set the box on the top of the nearby step ladder. “I suspected you were superhuman before. Now I have proof.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He took a bite. Once he swallowed, he said, “You don’t let anything stand in your way. If you want something, you go after it without a thought that it won’t work out.”
Was he talking about last night? When I’d tried to pull him into my bed?
I hid my cringe by taking another bite. I wandered to the side window and looked out at a pair of mourning doves hanging out in the grass near the bench as I ate the rest of my donut.
Instead of savoring it, I was sidetracked by my thoughts, my embarrassment.
I owed him an apology. He was helping me in so many ways, proving to be reliable to a fault, and how did I pay him back?
I shook my head, irritated with myself.
Once I finished my donut, I turned to West, who was leaning against the back wall. He popped in his last bite, watching me, as if he couldn’t quite trust me not to flirt or make another move.
I stepped toward him. “West?”
He peered down at me as he chewed.
Meeting his gaze, I said, “I’m sorry about last night. Drinking too much, needing help up the stairs at the inn, needing a ride home.” I closed my eyes momentarily, then opened them. “I’m sorry I tried to pull you into my bed.”
He swallowed and studied me intensely. Seconds ticked by, my body tensed, and I stopped breathing as I waited for him to say something.
He finally said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t in the position to let you pull me into your bed.”
His gaze didn’t waver, and my heart caught. Neither of us looked away for several seconds, our gazes locked. Was he saying he’d wanted to join me in bed? He had kissed the hell out of me in the boathouse.
He wasn’t in the position. Did that mean because of his job? Because I was drunk? Or something else?
Could I possibly overthink one single sentence any further?
I yanked my gaze away first, flustered as hell but trying not to show it. “Okay then,” I said. “So what’s the plan for the day? We’re doing the office first?”
West
More than twelve hours after Presley had shown up with donuts, I was ready to call it a day. The drywall was hung and the first coat of mudding done.
Presley had shocked me throughout the day with her determination and grit.
I could tell the second she came in the door this morning that she was feeling last night’s liquor, but she hadn’t complained once.
But I’d caught her taking Tylenol after lunch, and she had that morning-after disheveled, slightly off-kilter look to her.
Don’t get me wrong. She looked damn good in a thrown-together, woke-up-like-this way, with no makeup on her face and stray wisps of hair coming out of her ponytail.
After a restless night filled with images of her in that pretty pink bed and regret that I couldn’t join her, I ached to run my hands all over her and dishevel her more.
Drywalling was hard-ass labor, but she’d been here the whole day, contributing in spite of the hangover she’d finally admitted to. I’d rented a lift yesterday, unsure how much help she’d be. She didn’t look particularly muscular, and I wouldn’t do a solo job without one.
To my surprise, she’d gone all in and turned out to be a worthy partner even though it was her first time drywalling. I’d taught her to measure for cutouts, to cut large sheets, and to hang them.
Presley had fed me well, going after carryout burgers from the diner for lunch and Humble’s pizza for dinner.
We’d devoured a large pizza and a dessert of leftover donuts, sitting on the chairs we’d moved to the enclosed kitchen area, agreeing we didn’t like the fishbowl feeling of the front room once the sun went down.
Afterward, she’d stretched out on the floor, flat on her back, to relieve the back strain of drywalling for hours straight. I’d run across the square to the public restrooms and come back to find her still on the floor, sound asleep, her phone on her stomach.
I’d let her sleep and done the first coat of mud on the drywall. Mudding took experience to be able to use just the right amount, so I was content to take care of it myself while Presley rested. She’d more than earned it.
I mudded the office, the storage room, and the restrooms, saving the kitchen for last in case I woke her up.
As I worked around her, the most she stirred was turning her head from one side to the other, allowing me unlimited views, from her delectable thighs I imagined wrapping around me, to her tempting belly button that I could just barely see where her tank crawled up, to those slightly parted lips I longed to dip my tongue between again.
My thoughts were consumed by her as I mudded, the culmination of last night’s dreams and working all day with her, on top of weeks of X-rated urges where she was concerned.
I’d hoped my desire for her would lessen as I got to know her, but it’d done the opposite. When I’d returned from the town square again, where I’d filled a bucket with water to clean my drywall tools, she finally stirred, sitting up drowsily, looking irre-fucking-sistible.