Dead of Summer (Whistlemore #3)

Chapter 1

Desiree lifted her arm to her forehead. Nausea sloshed in her stomach, along with the remnants of mint mojitos. She didn’t dare lift her head from the pillow to check the time. Thank god she didn’t open the shop on Sundays. She pulled the blanket up and then froze.

Not her blanket.

No. Oh, no.

Memories slammed into her mind but slipped through the icy cold grip of panic.

A masculine snore sounded.

Her blood turned solid and the fluid in her stomach threatened to eject itself from her body. She’d slept with Aiden. She slid her gaze to her left and a boulder of regret grew in her chest.

He looked uber sexy with thick dark stubble on his jaw and tousled hair. His bow-shaped lips were parted.

She never got drunk. Like, ever. She also never got tangled up with locals. She was already considered one of the town’s weirdos based on the contents of her shop. Last night she’d shared a drink with Aiden Thorne, local cop. Which turned into two, then three, then . . .

Regret. That’s what it’d turned into. A heaping, stinking pile of regret that was going to decorate the inside of her toilet when she got home. Not now. She couldn’t puke at his house and alert him to her presence. Maybe if she snuck out, he’d forget the whole thing had happened.

Buckling down her nausea, she lifted the covers and slid off the bed ninja style. Reaching out her arm, she lowered herself to the floor. God, if McKenna and Josie were here, they’d die in a laughing fit. If it weren’t her reputation she’d just ruined, the whole situation would be almost funny.

She scanned the beige carpet of Aiden’s bedroom.

Her clothes couldn’t be far, but they’d come off so fast the previous night it was all a blur.

Warmth spread between her legs. He’d taken off her shirt soon after they’d stumbled—in a make-out session no less—into the house.

She crawled toward the end of the bed. Her black lace bra hung off the edge.

She quickly fastened it on her chest, keeping her body low as if that were somehow quieter.

Now where the hell was her underwear? Oh, yeah. Aiden had taken them off with his teeth. Good grief. It was just her luck to have the hottest sex ever with someone in the humble town of Whistlemore, Colorado. Screwing the town’s playboy had been dumb, dumb, dumb.

She’d leave without her panties if she had to, but that would be like leaving a glass slipper, and the last thing she needed was Aiden flashing her panties around town in search of their owner. Highly unlikely, of course, but she wasn’t leaving without the dratted purple lace.

She surveyed the walls—stranger things had happened.

A TV was mounted on the wall at the end of the bed, and a picture of a mountain landscape hung over the large king mattress.

A lone chair sat pushed against the window.

On it was a piece of violet, out of place on the stone gray.

Eureka. She scampered over on her hands and knees, yanked off the traitorous undies that should have done a better job of securing her virtue, and slipped them on.

The feel of Aiden’s smooth, slightly sharp teeth as he slid the same material down over her hip flashed in her mind.

She wouldn’t be able to reenact that delicious scene, but at least she had the flickering memories to aid in her self-pleasure for the rest of her life.

She grabbed her purse from the same chair and swallowed.

She wasn’t the cowardly type. Actually, she’d never had a one-night stand before, and not in her wildest dreams had she thought she’d sneak out on a dude as hot as Aiden.

She looked at his dreamy face and sighed.

The least she could do was write him a note.

Odds were he wouldn’t forget their encounter.

She made her way to the living room and found her pants by the couch and stuffed her legs into them.

Then tracked to the small galley kitchen and scooped her shirt from the floor and fit it over her head.

Next, she scanned the counter for a pen.

Nothing. She opened a few of the drawers and huffed.

Didn’t anyone have pens anymore? Geez. She dug through her purse and pulled out her red lipstick.

Clearing a spot on the white laminate counter, she wrote a hurried message: Thanks for the fun. No need to call. See you around.

She opened the front door and stepped into the warm summer day.

Bye, Aiden.

* * *

Aiden stared at the fat red letters scrawled on his kitchen counter. Who the fuck did something like that? Desiree Zimmerman, that’s who. The hilarious, big-haired woman he’d spent three hours in the bar with and another two mind-blowing hours in bed with the previous night.

She’d said she wanted him. That she didn’t make rash decisions. That she could hold her alcohol and knew exactly what she was doing. Although they’d shared a few too many, she hadn’t been shit-faced.

But the bold words written on his goddamn counter screamed remorse and possibly disgust. Had he not gotten her off? He recalled the moments when his face was between her legs. Yeah, she definitely got off, unless she was the best actress in the world.

He dragged his hand through his dark hair.

He’d never been used for sex, and the idea hadn’t bothered him before—what guy wouldn’t want a no-strings-attached roll in the hay?

—but for some reason it did now. Maybe because they’d hit it off.

He’d had more laughs with Dez in three hours than he had with the whole police force in eight years.

He’d loved every minute of their conversation about self-healing, astrology, and consciousness.

Things that lit her hazel eyes as if she’d struck a gold mine.

Most of it had gone right over his head, but it was fascinating as fuck listening to it fall from her lips.

The most full, gorgeous, kissable lips.

He wandered back to his bedroom, scooped up his tossed clothes and dropped them in the hamper, then stepped into a pair of workout shorts.

Dez’s scent—cinnamon and all things mysterious—still hung in the air, making him ache to get back in bed with her.

Hell, he’d even be happy just to go back to the bar and talk to her.

Knock, knock

His front door banged, the boom obviously from a heavy fist. Much too hard and masculine of a blow for someone slight like Dez.

He made his way back to the kitchen and yanked open the door.

His longtime friend Wes stood on the front porch, hands stuffed in his pockets and a baseball cap covering his normally slicked-back dark hair.

“Hey,” Aiden said, as he swung open the door and turned away in his briefs.

“How’s it going?” Wes asked.

“Fine. What’s up?” His tone was tense. Damn it, he couldn’t shake off his angst about Dez.

The click of the front door told him Wes had entered. He didn’t bother to put on a shirt because he’d jump in the shower once Wes left.

“Oh, not much. Just seeing if—What the hell’s on your counter?” A loud laugh burst from his friend’s lips.

“Shut up,” Aiden said, lacking venom and turning to lean against the wall across from the counter, arms folded across his chest.

Wes’s shoulders shook. He pressed his hands onto the edge of the counter, his chuckles shaking his body.

“All right. Do I need to knock you out? What the hell’s the matter with you?”

Wes sighed. “What’s the matter with me? What’s the matter with you? I had a woman sneak out of my bed before, but I never pissed someone off so much they painted my counter.”

“It’s lipstick, numbnuts.”

“Yeah, and that’s not going to come out. Really, though. What happened? When I left the bar last night you and Dez seemed cozy. I waited half the morning to swing by and see if you were still coming on the hike with me. Sure didn’t expect this,” Wes said, nodding at the graffiti.

“No hike. I’m not in the mood. Besides, I have to start work in an hour. As for Dez . . . fuck if I know. We had a good night as far as I can remember.”

Wes lifted a shoulder. “Maybe she just doesn’t want you to feel obligated to take her out again. Girls are weird like that. Makin’ you work for it, you know?”

Aiden slid his attention to the words again, and a new ball of knots formed in his stomach. No need to call. “Maybe.” He waved his hand in the air as if to bat away any further discussion. “I’m off Tuesday if you want to hang out.”

“Sure.” Wes straightened and moved toward the door. “Oh,” he said, snapping his fingers. “One thing. You didn’t tell me Meredith Wilkes moved in next door.”

Aiden folded his arms in front of his chest. “Why would I tell you that?”

“’Cause she’s hot and you know I’ve got a thing for blondes. Unless . . . wait a minute. That’s the neighbor you were talking about, isn’t it?”

Aiden grumbled. Leave it to Wes to make him rehash his screwups first thing in the morning with alcohol still clogging his brain. “That was months ago. And yeah.”

“Well, shit.” He lifted his hat a few inches and scrubbed his hair. “There goes that idea. I was going to ask her out, but not after . . . you know. No offense but that’d be weird.”

“None taken. Besides, things got strange with Meredith. She was nice and all. Super nice, actually. Still is. But I got the feeling she wanted things to get serious. Even though I told her in the beginning I wasn’t looking for a relationship.

” He made his way to the coffee machine.

Thank Jesus it too hadn’t failed him, like his charm had.

That would have made for an even shittier start to his day. “Coffee?”

“Nah, I’m going to head out.”

“’Kay. Have a good one.”

“You too,” Wes said, cracking open the door. “By the way, try some hydrogen peroxide on the counter. But I think you should keep it as a daily reminder of how to improve your sexual performance.”

Aiden cocked back his fist and advanced on his friend, but a laugh hit his throat. “Get outta here,” he barked.

Wes’s howls bellowed from the porch after Aiden shut the door.

Might as well be the theme song of my life.