Chapter 6 Ginger
Ginger
Three sharp knocks startle me awake, and I jolt upright on the couch in my living room. With a wince, I rub at the crick in my neck.
A groggy glance around lets me know it’s morning. I fumble with the blankets in search of my phone when three more knocks sound.
“Holy shit, keep your pants on,” I mumble, wrestling my legs free from the blanket I’m tangled up in.
Pushing to my feet, nausea rolls through me, and my eyes take in the…one, two, three, four… Nope, five—one rolled under the table—empty beer bottles that contributed to me falling asleep on the couch, tilted at an awkward angle, where I slept all night.
I stumble to the entryway and flip the deadbolt before yanking the door open, squinting against the bright sunlight. It takes me a couple of seconds to register the dimple-faced, six-foot-six-inch, man-bun-wielding hunk of meat staring back at me.
What. The. Fuck?
“Morning, sunshine,” Hutch drawls with a grin, before dropping his gaze down my body. “To you and your nipples.”
I’m suddenly aware I’m in nothing but a bralette, panties, and an open silk robe that hits me mid-thigh. I yank my robe closed with a little squeak. I’m sure my hair is a nightmare, too.
“What are you… Why are you…?” I stutter out as another wave of nausea threatens to empty my stomach.
Hutch looks amused and smug as ever when he speaks. “I texted you I’d be here at noon.”
Noon? It’s fucking noon?
Wait. I narrow my eyes at him.
“Texted?” I choke out.
“Mmhmm,” he hums, lifting one of the paper coffee cups in his hand to his mouth.
How does he even have my number? Unless… I am going to kill Wrenley.
I run a hand down my face, then sigh, dropping my hand. “Why are you on my porch?” I ask in what sounds to my ears like a petulant whine. But I can’t seem to care because, my God, is my head pounding.
Hutch cocks an eyebrow at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You really don’t know?”
I raise a brow at him, truly losing patience. “Know what?”
“Wren texted me,” he says. “She said you needed a ride to Timber Forge.”
I blink out at the man standing on my porch. I’m either still asleep or having the most ridiculous dream ever. That, or I slipped and hit my head and now have a concussion, causing hallucinations. Because that is the only reason this man would be here.
In California. On my doorstep. At…noon, apparently.
I shake my head once and my brows pinch inward. “Why?”
“Hell if I know. I was as surprised as you are. Here. I got you coffee.” He holds out the other paper cup, which strikes me as oddly…sweet.
Which makes zero sense coming from him and is further evidence that I am, in fact, dreaming or hallucinating. Or maybe I’m still drunk?
I look from him to the cup and back again, tightening my arms around my middle. “What? Why?”
“It’s coffee, not poison, but if you don’t want it.” He shrugs like he doesn’t care one way or the other, pulling the cup back.
My mind seems to come back online. It’s coffee. We don’t refuse coffee.
“No, no. I’ll… Thanks,” I say, taking it from his hand and glancing down at the cup before putting it to my lips. It’s not how I normally take my coffee, but beggars can’t be hungover choosers. “Shit, that’s good,” I mutter, and he grins.
I scowl at him. I don’t mean to, it’s just my default setting when it comes to the cocky asshole. Although he’s acting rather un-asshole-ish right now. Maybe he’s sick.
“So are you going to invite me in, or did I drive an hour and a half out of my way to stand on your porch?”
I make an impatient sound in the back of my throat and look around.
He raises his eyebrows. “You’re not fucking with me? You really didn’t ask her to call me?”
“No.” I shake my head a little too hard, making my stomach roll. I swallow hard, trying to keep the nausea at bay. “I mean, I don’t think so?” I say with a sigh.
Hutch lets out a chuckle, all rich and gravelly, and I hate that the sound gives me goosebumps. He glances down at his feet before bringing those incredible, deep blue eyes back up to mine.
How can one man be so attractive? Because Hutch is. Disgustingly so. I kind of hate it. Well, my brain does. The rest of me is very aware of how much I do not hate it.
“You might want to check your phone, California.” Hutch nods behind me, another sly smile tipping up his lips when I scowl at his nickname for me. His smile makes those damn dimples pucker.
I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously but turn and walk away in search of my phone, leaving the door open. Disappearing around the corner into the living room, I hear Hutch step inside and shut the door behind him.
It takes a minute for me to find my phone in all the blankets, but when I wake it up, I see missed calls from Peter, several texts from Wren, and more from…
I chuckle a bit that even in my drunken state, I managed to save his contact as ‘Bigfoot’.
And there it is in all its glory. Multiple texts back and forth between me and my best friend about road trips and roadhead at the height of drunken stupidity.
Fucking beer.
Hutch steps into the living room and his eyes land on the coffee table littered with beer bottles before dancing over to the makeshift bed of pillows and blankets on the couch. It’s obvious why I’m looking a wreck this morning. His eyes land back on mine.
“Someone had fun last night,” he comments with a chuckle.
Smug bastard.
As I click through more messages, I don’t even try to stifle the groan that comes out.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter under my breath.
Hutch wanders over to the fireplace, putting him behind me. “See?”
I blow out a breath and drop onto the couch, ignoring him. Because staring back at me is the stupidest text I’ve ever sent in my life, timestamped at one-thirty a.m.
Ginger: We’re you serious about that road trip?
Wrenley: Of course! But what changed your mind?
Ginger: I watched my neighbors fuck in their pool while you got railed by your hot, broody cowboy. I bet even Finn’s getting some with her big ol’ pregnant belly. Make it happen! *eggplant emoji* *peach emoji* kitty face emoji*
The return text is from five-thirty this morning. Almost six and a half hours ago.
Wrenley: Hell yeah, sis! On it! *van emoji* *dancing emoji*
What the hell?
I scroll back down, putting the pieces together in my hangover-riddled brain.
Seriously? Why did I have to drink all those beers?
Bigfoot: Coming at noon.
Ginger: Yeah you are *winky face emoji* *water splash emoji*
Jesus Christ. My eyes slide closed.
I don’t look up, but I can picture his face, those stupid-hot dimples popping as he flashes that cocky, panty-melting grin.
Burying my free hand in my messy hair, my mind spins like it’s buffering.
There is no way in sober hell that I am getting into an enclosed vehicle with Hutch Hayes.
Especially after all those fucking emojis.
I bolt off the couch and all but run for the bathroom, leaving Hutch standing in my living room.
“Where are you going?” he calls after me.
“I’ll be right back,” I call out and fly down the hall, into my bedroom, and shut the door behind me.
Pulling up Wren’s contact, I stab at the FaceTime button and wait for the call to connect as I pace.
She picks up on the second ring. “Hey, babe!” she says cheerfully.
“Care to tell me why there is literal sex on legs on my doorstep?” I whisper-shout.
Confusion paints her features before she says, “To pick you up?”
“I know that but why?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You texted me last night… Well, this morning actually. I only saw it because I was up feeding Hazel. You said to text Hutch and have him—wait,” she says, “you don’t remember this? Look at your text messages.”
I let out another groan. “I did.”
She laughs like me being nearly hysterical with embarrassment is funny. “Then why are you asking me something you already know the answer to?”
“Because I drank myself into a self-pity stupor and passed the fuck out on the couch.”
She snorts.
“Don’t!” I bark at my best friend, pointing a finger at her through the screen. “Don’t you dare laugh at me right now.”
She does anyway. “Oh, honey, what’s the big deal?”
I cannot resist the wily ways of this man and his magic cock, but I can’t tell her that. Not with him standing in my living room. Hell, he could be listening to me lose my mind on the other side of this door and I wouldn’t know it. I let out a strangled growl.
“The big deal is—” I nearly screech before lowering my voice and waving my hand around in the direction of the door, “I have a giant, man-bun-wearing, dimple popping, annoyance standing in my living room, ready to take me for a ride. And you and I both know I’m not talking about a car ride!”
Wren laughs again. “That is the definition of a road trip, Ginger. And if you happen to fall on his dick while you’re at it, well, two birds, one stone.”
“Wrenley Jo Hayes, you are not helping!”
“What? You’re both single,” she says on another laugh.
I scoff and roll my eyes, going back to pacing. “You really think that’s a good idea? We can’t stand each other. Enclosed space, Wrenley. At highway speeds.”
“Oh, stop,” Wren says placatingly. “It’s a few days tops. Quit being a baby. Who knows? You might even have a little fun.” She pumps her eyebrows lasciviously.
“But I’m not ready,” I throw out lamely.
It’s her turn to scoff. “You know as well as I do that you’re already packed for Timber Forge. And have been for days.”
Ugh. I drop my head back to stare at the ceiling. She knows me too well.
“But—”
“No buts.” She nods once, as if that is all there is to say about the situation. “Go get ready. Ask nicely. He’ll wait.”
“I hate you.”
“Use protection!” Wren singsongs before the line goes dead.
I stare at the phone, doing three full laps back and forth in my en suite. This is fine. I’ll tell him I made a mistake. He can hop back in that cold war relic he calls a house and drive his ass right on home.
I’m cranky as hell this morning. And this is the last thing I need.
After watching my neighbors get it on overnight, I’d been halfway to an okay orgasm when the batteries died in my favorite vibe.
Granted, I could have gotten up and grabbed a charger or even gone back into the bedroom to grab another of my buddies from their hiding spot in my closet, but I’d been too tired.
I know. Super lame.
Throwing my shoulders back, I march from the room, making sure to tie my robe closed over my underwear.
Hutch turns from the window when he hears me enter the living room.
I notice all the beer bottles are missing from the table, and my blankets are neatly stacked on the couch along with my pillow. Huh. That’s…unexpected.
His brows come together. “Why aren’t you dressed? Get your shit and I’ll throw it in the Vanagon.”
I shake my head, crossing my arms over my chest. “I…may have had a bit too much to drink last night.”
“You think?” He chuckles.
My temper flares, but I tamp it down. It’s not his fault I can’t handle my alcohol. “I’m sorry you came all this way, but I’m not going with you.”
He cocks a brow at me; a knowing look paints his features before he crosses his arms over his chest. “Knew you’d chicken out.”
My hackles raise. Me? Chicken out? I snort and then glare at him. As if. Who the hell does he think he is? He doesn’t know me. I’m about to tell him to get fucked when something Wren said stops me.
Who knows? You might even have a little fun.
“I am not chickening out,” I grit out.
“Uh-huh. Sure,” he says nonchalantly.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You do realize it’s like a thousand miles from here to Timber Forge.”
“Eleven hundred.” He pauses, brow raised. “So what?”
“We’ll kill each other.”
He stalks toward me until he’s standing so close I have to tip my head back to look up at him.
God, he smells good. Like cedar, something earthy, like leather and bad decisions. Stupid sexy neanderthal.
“What’s the matter, California? Afraid you’ll fall on my dick?” His words slide over my skin, voice low, smooth as honey, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
My skin flushes, and I blink up at him, my mouth open to speak, but nothing comes out. Because my brain seems to lose all sorts of function when he’s this close to me and I knew that he was listening outside my door.
The corner of his lips tips up. “Get ready. I’ll be back in two hours,” he says and strides for the door.
His ass in those jeans ought to be illegal. Goddamnit.
You know what? Fuck it. I’m Ginger fucking Westbrook and I can do this without falling on his dick. I’m not an animal. I can exercise self-control.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I glare at his retreating back.
“I’ll be ready in one, Bigfoot. I’m sure you have a terribly busy schedule of dragging your knuckles across half of California and grooming your man bun, but try to be on time, mmkay?” I call out.
His bark of laughter is the last thing I hear before the door closes behind him.