Drunk Rex’s gaze was still focused—or rather, unfocused—on my lips, his eyes hooded. “You are very, very beautiful,” he whispered in that same rumbly tone.
“So you mentioned earlier. And you are very drunk.” My voice hitched as I leaned away, bringing the belt to the fastener at his hip. “I’ve been a bartender long enough to know all people look like supermodels after one too many beers or whiskeys. Lean all the way back, please.”
The windows were now completely fogged, my hands were shaking, and I fumbled to fit the pieces of his seat belt together. And then, out of absolutely nowhere and without any warning, his fingers pushed into my hair at my temple, fisted, and pulled, exposing my neck.
I sucked in a startled breath, flinched, and let go of the seat belt. The metal piece boomeranged, smacked him in the face so hard I heard it hit bone, which forced him to release my hair. I covered my mouth, and he covered his cheek where he’d been belted. Literally.
“Ow!”
“Oh my God, I’m sorry!” I reached forward but then snatched my hands back, balling them into fists in front of me. “I’m so sorry.”
“No. I’m sorry.” His head fell back against the headrest, and he rubbed at his cheek, a gruff laugh tumbling from his luscious lips. “Your hair is so . . . it looked soft, and I . . . But I’m sorry,” he slurred. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He shook his head fiercely. “I never do that.”
We sat in silence for a minute while I worked to bridle all the various involuntary and confused tremblings and twistings and poundings within my body. Rex closed his eyes, gathering several deep breaths.
“Rex.” I broke the silence, eyeballing the seat belt on his right once more. “Do you think, maybe, you could buckle your own seat belt?”
He nodded, swallowing, his eyes still closed. Grateful for the reprieve, I buckled myself in and turned the engine while I watched him reach to his right with clumsy movements. Eventually, he managed to bring the strap over his chest and hips, but his fingers kept slipping and missing the buckle.
“Here. Let me help.” Readying myself for more touching, I covered his hands and helped him guide the latch together, breathing out a huge sigh of relief when it finally clicked.
“There,” I said, turning back to the windshield, sweaty, breathing hard, feeling like I’d just navigated a Ninja Warrior obstacle course. “Okay, let’s—”
“Oh—oh no.” Rex’s hands came back to the buckle, his movements suddenly frantic.
I stiffened. “What? What’s wrong?”
“I—I need—” He turned away, grabbing for the door latch, yanking it so hard the metal piece broke clear off.
I gasped and then recoiled, pressing myself as far from him as I could and against the driver’s-side door because Rex McMurtry—the man of my dreams—had just thrown up.
All over himself.
And me.
And my car.
CHAPTER 4
“‘Do you think we can be friends? ’ I asked
He stared up at the ceiling. ‘Probably not, but we can pretend. ’”
PRIYA ARDIS, EVER MY MERLIN
I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep—what with a mostly naked Rex sleeping on an air mattress just inches from where I’d collapsed on my futon—but I’d zonked out the moment my head had hit the pillow. That said, I didn’t sleep very long.
Perhaps if the prior evening’s (and early morning’s) events hadn’t floated into my consciousness the moment I cracked an eye open, I would’ve been able to flip my pillow, turn, and return to blissful slumber. But the memory of hosing off a fully clothed Rex on my patio, then hosing off myself, then undressing him in the dark and wrapping him in a sheet, and then brushing his teeth while he sloppily told me how beautiful I was and called me an angel, had my eyes flying open and inspecting the floor next to me.
Nope. Not a dream.
There he was. The dude. The man. The Rex. The guy who’d asked me to marry him and then barfed all over my car last night, sprawled out on the bed I’d made for him, wearing nothing but his underwear, a sheet, and a comforter. He slept peacefully at present, like he hadn’t a care in the world. Midafternoon Texas sunshine kissed his tan profile, his bulging bicep where he hugged the pillow, and the top half of his impressive back not covered by the comforter.
I frowned, doing a scan of my internal organs. Nary a flutter or surge of excitement. Huh.
But then he stretched, and the butterflies in my stomach went from zero to red alert in no seconds. Staring wide-eyed at the rippling muscles of his back, I held my breath and waited, my brain frantic. What will I say?
I batted that thought away, the answer obvious. I’d tell him the truth: I’d served him while he’d been drunk, that was entirely my fault, and when he couldn’t give me the name of anyone who could take him off my hands—and after I’d ascertained he wasn’t in danger of alcohol poisoning—I’d brought him here to sleep it off. Easy.
But what if he—
I batted that thought away before it fully formed. I wasn’t a soothsayer. I didn’t take note of the ides of March. I couldn’t predict the future.
And if life had taught me anything, it was to avoid tying myself in knots by worrying about a future I had no control over. I lived—quietly, sedately, conservatively—in the present, which typically meant minimal turmoil or disruption.
Rex would wake up and I’d deal with it, and then I’d take him wherever, and that was that. End of this bizarre story.
After stretching, Rex didn’t wake up. He turned to his other side, hugged the pillow tighter, and kept on sleeping. I covered my eyes with an arm, thankful for the reprieve. I wanted to be up and dressed and ready to go by the time he woke up.
I’d had big plans for today. Well, big plans relative to what I considered big plans, none of which had included me hosing out and shampooing the interior of my car as the sun rose behind me, and then sleeping until—I turned my head and squinted at my alarm clock—just past noon. I had things to do, holiday markets to prepare for, cauldron mug special orders to make and ship before Halloween, Christmas tree ornaments to glaze and fire and so on.
But first, another shower. And breakfast. And coffee.
It is my hypothesis that a proper hot shower—proper meaning excellent water pressure and temperature near scalding—equated to a bonus hour of sleep in terms of refreshing one’s mind and spirit. And good coffee makes everything better.
Mindful to grab a change of clothes before heading to the bathroom, I stole another glance at Rex, debating whether or not to leave him a note. He would be disoriented when he woke up, and I didn’t want him worrying about where he was. Ultimately, I decided against it. Writing out a note would take me just as long as the shower. But I did leave him a glass of water and two pain relievers next to his mattress. Just in case.
Once inside the bathroom, I eyeballed the toothbrush I’d used on him last night, wondering if I should throw it away now or later. He’ll want to brush his teeth again when he wakes up, I think. And maybe he could take it with him? It was new from the package, and it seemed a shame to waste four dollars on a toothbrush only used once.