CHAPTER 12
Palmer
The sunlight shines relentlessly through the glass of the window, prying my eyes open from the safety of my dreams and into the harsh confines of a grade-A hangover.
Groaning, I pull the pillow over my face and allow the silky material to soothe my swollen skin.
Searching the dark abyss of my mind, I try (to no avail) to recall the events of last night.
My memories come and go as flashes of the fluorescent lights of Lindy’s basement and the campfire in the backyard, never allowing a single clear recollection of what might have transpired.
I kick the blankets off, begging the air to circulate and cool my sweating, naked body.
Naked.
Shit.
Suddenly, the pounding in my head seems like a significantly smaller problem than the one at hand.
I reach blindly for the remote on my nightstand to close the blinds. A dull thud hits the floor, and an inhuman noise escapes my mouth. Painstakingly, I roll to the edge of the bed and crack my eyes behind the shade of my hand.
The remote taunts me from just out of reach on the shiny hardwood. I dread having to move anymore of my body, but the thought of the sun further blinding me is far worse. Steeling myself for the impact, I roll off the bed and land hard on the floor, the sheets tangled around my legs.
I scoot the few inches I couldn’t reach from the bed and jam my finger hard on the remote. The black screen descends, slowly submerging the room into a comfortable darkness. My skin sticks to the floor, but the wood is refreshingly cool against my smushed face.
What better place to contemplate my potential poor decisions from the night before?
Pushing myself up to my elbows, I squint around to survey my room for the first time since waking, my contacts dry in my eyes.
Pillows lay haphazardly across the bed and dot the floor.
One of my sandals peeks out from beneath the bed, the other sits on my nightstand.
The sundress I had so deliberately picked out lays deposited in the center of the room, and the lingerie recreates my path to the bed.
Even in its disarray, something about the room seems off.
It dawns on me: I can hear the shower running across the room.
Untangling the sheets, I stand and rewrap them around my body.
I shuffle to the floor-length mirror hidden in my closet and drop my cover.
My breasts lay pristine and seemingly untouched, as do my thighs.
With my hands, I go over every inch of my body, searching for bite marks or fingertip-shaped bruises, preparing myself for what I might be walking into and with whom.
For all my searching, I find nothing, not even a tender spot.
Satisfied, I pick up my sheet and start toward the bathroom to see who I might’ve had sex with last night.
Water from behind the door creates a tantalizing rhythm.
Warmth ebbs from the space near the floor.
Unable to refrain any longer, I slowly turn the handle and open the door barely more than a crack.
Steam slithers from the room and curls around my legs.
As it clears, I recognize the familiar form stands beneath the glass door.
Bailey’s hands run over his face and down his chest. His eyes are closed, face upturned into the stream.
The muscles in his back ripple as he massages his shoulder beneath the stream.
Threads of water curve along the planes of his body, crisscrossing the black ink of his tattoos. Fuck, he’s gorgeous.
Fuuuuuck, did we have sex last night?
As much as I would like to keep watching him (or frankly, join him while I actually have my wits about me), the thought of him seeing me watching him is enough to make me end this staring contest.
I breathe a sigh of relief despite the tension gathering in my stomach as I close the door.
Slumped against the wall, I contemplate the relief I feel at the fact that the one in my shower is Bailey.
Not having a stranger in my home means no awkward small talk about the night before, no awkward goodbye, no awkward kiss, no obligatory goodbye sex.
Although the fact that I don’t remember if we maybe-maybe didn’t have sex pisses me off, because goddammit, I really wanted to be able to see if the look in those brown eyes is as sultry when he’s actually undressing me as opposed to when he’s just undressing me with his eyes.
All our flirting from a few days prior, and the memory of the orgasm I had as a result, floods my brain.
I should be remembering whatever we actually did last night, not just thinking about what I hope we did.
This is why I don’t fucking drink anymore.
For some reason, the longer I stand leaning against the wall, the stronger the need becomes to cover every part of my body. I grab the pair of pajama pants and the baggiest T-shirt I own, which are draped over the foot of my bed. When did I put those there?
I might want him to fuck me senseless, but I also don’t want to make it weird because I can’t remember if he did.
What if I had the best sex of my life last night, and I don’t even know it?
God, I suck at this stupid ho phase thing.
Satisfied with my attire, I walk into the living room and let Mouse out into the backyard.
She squeaks appreciatively and rolls in the grass.
I leave the door open so she can come in if she wants to.
I dig through the cabinets, searching for something quick to eat that will hopefully quell the stomachache and headache that I know are going to be problems for at least the rest of the day, probably the next few days.
No luck, so I dig a carton of eggs out from the fridge and pull a couple of bagels out. Hope Bailey’s a fan of breakfast sandwiches.
As I flip the eggs for the final time, I hear footsteps padding through the living room. My heart leaps into my throat, and all I can hear is the pounding of the blood in my ears. Suddenly, the eggs and the pan in which they cook, become the most fascinating thing in the world.
Bailey pipes up from behind me, his voice gravelly, “Mornin’.”
“Good morning.” I try my best not to be weird, but the battle is already lost.
“That smells good. Do you need any help?”
“No, I got it!” I could kick myself for how weirdly chipper I sound. I don’t even sound like this on a normal day. He doesn’t even have to know me well to recognize that. “Do you want bacon or sausage for your sandwich?”
“I’ll have what you’re having.”
Great, I think. I’ll take one order of you, dine-in please.
Instead, I say, “Bacon it is then. Do you want something to drink? There’s a coffee machine over there”—I gesture with my head—“and the cups are right above it.”
I hear him rummaging in the cupboard across the kitchen and risk sneaking a peek.
Oh.
My.
God.
His jeans ride low on his hips, the waistband of his boxers hugging tightly against the sharp contours of his taut back muscles. His upper body is bare save for the black tattoos that cover his arms, and it is everything I can do to keep my jaw off the floor.
“Do you want some coffee?” he asks over his shoulder.
I turn quickly away before all common sense leaves me, and I strip him down for my own up-close-and-personal tour of the tattoos that disappear beneath his waistband. Avoiding eye contact, I reply, “Sure.”
Bailey rustles in the cabinets and makes quick work getting the machine started. “How do you take your coffee?” he asks.
“Oh, uh, I don’t drink coffee actually. I just bought the machine for when I have guests.”
“Okay, so what do you want to drink?”
I flip one of the eggs onto the bagel and start on the next. “I’m fine, thank you though. I can take care of it once I’m done.”
“Or maybe”—I hear him turn—“you can let me take care of you. You’re making breakfast. Let me help.”
“Okay.” My voice comes out a squeak. “I actually really like the tea pod that’s over there.”
“Perfect, one tea coming up.”
We pass the next few minutes with only the sounds of the egg frying, the machine gurgling, and the jingle of Mouse’s collar as she strolls leisurely back into the house.
“Hey there, Mama. How you doin’, big girl?”
Mouse snorts at Bailey as he pats her side.
Traitor.
A ceramic mug appears next to my hand as I finish prepping the sandwiches. “Tea, and two ibuprofen.” He grabs my hand and deposits the capsules in it.
“Thanks,” I mumble. His touch is electric.
His hand lingers on my arm. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just finishing breakfast.”
He leans against the counter, and his body is so close I can physically feel my willpower slipping through my fingers. “Did you have fun last night?”
As I open my mouth to give a generic response, the truth slips out. “Well, actually I don’t really remember much.”
Bailey laughs. “Yeah, I can’t imagine you do. You got pretty fucked up.”
I shut off the stove top and finish putting the tops on the sandwiches then turn to face him. The smirk on his face tells me he finds this amusing, which kind of pisses me off.
He must sense my agitation, because he cocks his head slightly and asks, “Would you like me to recount the night for you?”
I groan and run my hands over my face. When I pull my hands away, Bailey’s eyes are trained on mine, making it impossible to avoid the inevitable any longer.
“Yes, please.”