Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Stratton helped me out of the truck and led me up the steps to his cabin. Nerves swirled in my belly, but then he said, “I have good whiskey, this place is private, and the Copper Mule isn’t open yet.”
“Because it’s early afternoon,” I muttered. “This is just great.”
“I’ll drink with you,” he said. “So you won’t be alone.”
“You’re either a good friend or a terrible influence,” I quipped.
He unlocked the front door and pushed it open, letting me go inside first.
It was one large room with a kitchen and living space. The bed was in the far corner and neatly made with a tartan throw. A wood stove was in the opposite corner.
“Cute,” I said.
“Small. But it’s all I need.”
“You mind if I use your bathroom?” I asked. “I want to wash my face.”
“Through there,” he said, pointing. “The hand towel is fresh, so feel free to use it.”
I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror.
Yikes.
My skin was blotchy and my makeup was running. I looked wilted. And the pins in my hair were making my head hurt.
I scrubbed my face and took down my hair, running my fingers through the curls. I breathed a sigh of relief when I began to look like myself again. Makeup was fun, but when it was caked on for a photoshoot it was an entirely differently story.
I opened the bathroom door. Stratton was in the kitchen, washing shot glasses.
“Can I help?” I asked.
“Nope. Nothing to do. Take a load off.”
I lowered myself to the couch and looked up at the cabin ceiling. Lodge pole pine. Stratton said he was renting the cabin, but he looked like the type who could’ve built it by hand.
“Jesus,” Stratton muttered.
My eyes went to him. “What?”
He was standing in the kitchen, holding the clean glasses and staring at me.
“Everything okay?” I asked in curiosity.
“Yep.” He sighed and came toward me. “I just wasn’t prepared.”
“For what?”
“You. Without makeup. And your hair down.”
“Ah, a jump scare, huh?” I teased.
He shook his head slowly and set the glasses down onto the coffee table. “No. I just realized that’s how you’ll look first thing in the morning. And I like it.”
My eyes widened.
He cracked the bottle of whiskey and poured two shots. He handed me one.
“Wait, what time is it?” I asked.
He looked at the clock on the microwave. “1:57.”
“Can we wait three more minutes until 2?”
“Why?”
“Because I can deal with drinking at 2. I never drink this early. This is a one off. At least if it’s 2 or later it feels like it’s okay.”
He smiled slowly. “You’re kooky. I like that.”
I settled back against the couch. “You can sit, you know.”
“Can I? Thanks.” He arched a brow and took the spot on the couch next to me, leaving a decent sized space between us.
“Before we start drinking, I have to know . . .” he began.
“Yeah?”
“Is this heartbreak drinking?”
I shook my head. “This is he made me feel stupid, and I hate feeling stupid kind of drinking.”
“What happened?” he asked.
I looked at the microwave clock. “Two-oh-one.” I lifted my shot glass. “Bottom’s up.” We tossed back the shots and I shuddered violently. “Oh God. That’s terrible.”
“Why did you insist on whiskey?” he asked. “Why not something else?”
“Vodka makes me cry, tequila makes my legs fall open, and whiskey makes me feisty.”
“What was that about tequila?” Stratton asked with a slow smile.
I reached for the bottle. “Another?”
“Sure. Feisty, you say? How feisty are we talking?”
I downed another shot, glad that this one went down easier. “Uhm. Picking fights with people twice my size.”
“I’m twice your size.”
I grinned. “Be prepared.”
“I can’t feel my face,” I said, pressing my fingers to my cheeks. “I should stop drinking.”
Stratton laughed. “We stopped drinking an hour ago.”
“How many shots have I had?” I asked.
“Two.”
“Oh.”
“Lightweight,” he teased.
I was currently supine on the couch, my head on a pillow, my sock-clad feet on his lap.
“I like your place,” I murmured. “It’s very cozy.”
“Glad you like it.” His hand went to my ankle and he held it. “So, you never did tell me about your phone call.”
“I didn’t?”
“No. You took a second shot instead.”
“Oh.” My eyes drifted to half-mast.
“Maisie,” he pressed, gripping my ankle.
“Sorry.” My eyes flipped open. “He got a promotion. And he told me he was moving to Coeur d’Alene and he wanted to move in together and I told him he was a terrible lay. Then I hung up and realized that all three of the Calhoun brothers overhead me.”
“Rewind. He wanted to move to Coeur d’Alene?”
“Yeah.”
“And he wanted to live with you?”
“So he said. I asked him who she was.”
“Who who was?”
“The woman,” I said. “Because of course there was another woman. She moved to Beijing for the company. He said it didn’t mean anything, but . . . I know if she’d stayed in Seattle, he wouldn’t want to move to Coeur d’Alene. I was his backup choice. Hence feeling stupid.”
He gently stroked my lower leg. “He was a bad lay?”
“I lost track of how many times I faked it.” I yawned and closed my eyes.
“Then why the hell did you stay with him?”
I sighed and mumbled. “I hate being a quitter.”