She blinked several times. “How did you figure all this out?”
“Internet,” he said. “After a few hangovers I did some research and found a combination of cures that works. You plannin’ on usin’ it real often?”
She shook her head very slowly. “I like a beer. I even like a shot of Jack. I’m not so much into tequila, but it was there and I didn’t want it to feel left out. But until right now I’ve never been drunk and it isn’t ever happening again.”
He put the last bite into her mouth and kissed her on the forehead. “Good girl. Now for the final step, and then you can take a shower. There’s an extra toothbrush in the cabinet. Still in the bubble pack. You’ll be ready for it after you shower. I’ll get another pot of coffee going while you do that.”
Her eyes fixed on his fine-looking butt under those loose pajama pants as he left the room again. Surely she wasn’t imagining or hadn’t merely dreamed that they’d had sex on this very mattress. She drew her eyebrows down and flinched when that brought another pang between her eyes. What was today? Had she been there a day? A week?
Shooter hopped off the mattress and made his way up the hallway, probably to stretch out in front of the fireplace since the lightning and thunder had stopped. Was that an omen? The storm was over and it was time for her to go home and face the music from her family, and why was it thundering at this time of year? There was snow on the ground for heaven’s sake.
She would eat the damn banana and she’d have a shower and gladly brush her teeth, but then she and Blake were going to have a talk. And this time she would remember every word, every nuance, and every expression on his face.
“Every single damn word,” she mumbled.
“Word about what?” he asked. “It’s snowing again and you don’t feel much like texturing a ceiling, so I vote we cuddle up on the sofa and spend the day together. We can turn off our cell phones and pretend we’re stranded on a desert island.”
“How long have I been here?” she asked.
“Since late last evening. Today is Monday.”
Had they cleared things up? If not, then why was he being so nice? “I’ve always wanted to get lost on an island. Hand me that banana and get the canoe ready for us to row to the island.”
Did she say that out loud? Good lord! What was the matter with her? They still had to clear a hell of a lot of things up before she cuddled up with him on the sofa all day.
He tossed it toward her and she caught it with both hands. “It’s working. My headache isn’t as bad.”
“I’m the hangover guru. Stick with me and I’ll take care of you,” he said.
“Sounds to me like you’re a guy who’s used that line many times,” she said, grabbing her aching head.
“Maybe I should write country music about curing hangovers.” He extended his hand and helped her off the mattress. “Finish the banana on the way to the shower. Everything is laid out and ready for you.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Hot water washed away more of the headache, but it didn’t do much to take away the guilt. What had she been thinking? She’d been put in charge of her grandmother for the afternoon and she’d failed…again.
Alora Raine Logan was a failure and she admitted it. Strip stark naked, standing under the shower spray on the Lucky Penny, which was every bit as appropriate as an AA meeting for alcoholics. She had failed in her marriage—couldn’t hold Riley’s interest. Failed as a daughter—proved she couldn’t be trusted. Failed as a sister—weekends were the only time Lizzy got to spend with Mitch.
“Sorry sumbitch that Mitch is, he’s her sumbitch.” Allie wiped at the tears streaming down her cheeks.
She slid down into the bathtub and curled up in a tight little ball, sobbing as the hot water streamed over her body. She didn’t hear the little plastic rings holding the shower curtain slide across the rod. She had no idea anyone was in the bathroom until Blake was in the tub with her. Still dressed in pajama pants and a knit shirt, he sat down behind her and gathered her into his arms. One minute she was sitting on the hard porcelain of an old bathtub, the next she was curled up in his lap, her cheek against his chest.
She started to say something, but he put a finger over her lips.
“The depression is the alcohol talking, not Allie Logan. Whatever happened is water under the bridge. Burn the damn bridge and forget the past,” he whispered.
His words were so poetic that they brought on a fresh batch of tears. She didn’t care if it was just another line he’d used. Didn’t care…they were the words that had started all this to begin with.
“I do care,” she said between sobs.
“About what?” He brushed strands of wet hair from her face.