He wanted to leave now? Fine by me. He could call a cab or an Uber to deal with his ungrateful no-longer-sexy forearms. I’d wasted enough of my day waiting around for him to wake up.
Sliding my teeth to the side, I glared at his stupid handsome face where he still sat on the air mattress I’d blown up without a pump, using only the air in my lungs. I watched as he frowned at my futon—where I’d slept—and then back at his place on the floor.
No use prolonging the inevitable, I crossed to the closet where my washer and dryer were stored, yanked back the curtain, and pulled out his freshly laundered clothes. Then, pushing down all my ridiculous, hot, erratic feelings of disappointment—I really had no right to the feelings in any case—walked to him and held out his clothes.
“Here you go,” I said, wiping all emotion from my expression.
“Thanks,” he snapped, wearing a scowl as he snatched the laundry from my fingers. Bored, bleary eyes flickered to my face for the first time since he’d awoken. Almost immediately, he reared back, doing a double take as his hand holding the clothes slowly lowered to his lap.
When he left, I was going to eat all that bacon. No bacon for Rex!
He blinked at me, staring. I stared right on back. The angry lines around his mouth, eyes, and on his forehead smoothed, his gaze seeming to grow in confusion and shrink in ire. He stared for so long, I couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable under his poking perusal.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, an acute urge to fill the silence pushing thoughtless words from my mouth. “Sorry they’re wrinkled,” I said, crossing my arms and removing myself a few steps. I gestured to the bundle of laundry on his lap. “I don’t have any outfits that require an iron, so I don’t own one.”
Rex continued staring at me, like I was something strange, or I might explode, or I’d spoken in tongues.
But then he blurted, “Who are you?”
CHAPTER 5
“What's terrible is to pretend that second-rate is first-rate. To pretend that you don't need love when you do; or you like your work when you know quite well you're capable of better.”
DORIS LESSING, THE GOLDEN NOTEBOOK
Oh sigh.
I pressed my lips together, irritated with myself that—even after everything last night and so far today—I still felt a modicum of disappointment upon receiving irrefutable proof that Rex McMurtry had no idea who I was—not drunk, not sober, not in a bar, not in a car, not in my apartment in the middle of the day with excellent lighting.
Abruptly tired, I rubbed my forehead and asked, “How much do you remember about last night?”
His eyes, still hooked on my face, narrowed. “You brushed my teeth and hosed me down.”
That pulled an exhausted smile out of me. “Yes.” I gestured to the sheet and comforter covering his bottom half. “I had to preserve your modesty.”
“My . . .?” He looked at his lap and then his chest, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening. “We”—he motioned between us—“didn’t sleep together?”
WHAT THE—?
“What? No!” I lifted my hands to ward off the offending suggestion. “God no. You passed out on the air mattress, and I slept on my futon.” I turned and ducked my head, moving back to the kitchen and scratching my suddenly itchy neck. “What kind of person sleeps with someone who is incapacitated? Or even contemplates that?” I realized I was muttering out loud and slammed my mouth shut, hoping he hadn’t heard me.
I sensed his eyes on my back following me as I moved around the kitchen and prayed my cheeks didn’t look as red as they felt. It took a lot for me to be scandalized, and I’d just been officially scandalized.
“I know you,” he said, still sounding hostile. “We know each other. How do I know you?”
In my peripheral vision, I saw Rex begin to stand, and I fought the urge to cover my eyes with my hands. He didn’t stand, thank goodness, but instead peeked under the sheet as though to confirm he still wore underwear.
His bare chest was one thing—and what a glorious thing it was—but I’d taken great pains last night to not see anything else. However, all this delaying on my part to tell him how we knew each other was verging on ridiculous. I needed to fill him in so he’d stop wondering and asking.
I paced back over to him, stared him straight in the eye, and said plainly, “Yes. We know each other.”
He continued to eye me speculatively. “What’s your name?”
“Abigail. Or Gail. But people call me Abby these days.”
My name seemed to give him no answers.
“How do we know each other? Why don’t I remember you? Did I hit my head?”
I opened my mouth, not immediately speaking as I sorted through what to tell him first: that I’d been his bartender last night or that we’d known each other since we were five. Rex’s intelligent stare, now sharp with wakefulness, scoured me, probably looking for clues as to my identity.
Surrendering to the fact that I should just tell him the whole truth and get it over with, his eyes abruptly cut to mine, wide and filled with some emotion I couldn’t name.
“Hold up, hold up.” He licked his lips and croaked, “Are we engaged?”
Did he say Are we engaged? Or did he say Are wheat outraged?
. . . Hmm. That’s a hard one. I could do nothing but stare at him as I pondered alternatives to what I’d heard, the question so ludicrous I was certain I’d gotten it wrong.
Bar knee assuaged?
Lars sees a train?
Far we upstaged?
While I debated the potential alternatives, Rex’s eyes lowered to my midsection. I followed his line of sight. Ah! My grandmother’s ring. I wore it on my left ring finger.
“I asked you to marry me, didn’t I?” He gaped, his brain clearly working overtime.
“No take-backsies,” I singsonged before I could catch myself, wagging a finger, and turned to my little kitchen table.
The part of me who’d cleaned up his vomit this morning just to have to deal with his rudeness—a devil on my shoulder, if you will—had no problem playing along and playing tricks. Whereas another part of me wanted to apologize and immediately clarify his technically true, misleading recollection of last night.
My gaze flickered to him, and I saw his eyes were still on me, shell-shocked. Settling my elbow on the table and tapping my chin, I couldn’t resist adding, “I think I’d like a spring wedding.”
I ignored the strings of guilt plucked by my conscience, the devil pointing out that Rex hadn’t been very nice either. Real mature. Maybe someone will do the same thing to you one day, and how will you like that? I squirmed. Sometimes my conscience was a real killjoy.
Rex’s mouth dropped open, his eyebrows inching higher, and it was everything I could do to hold in the laughter, unkind though it was. But then I couldn’t, and I laughed. It was clear he actually believed me and was frantically trying to figure out how to extract himself from this situation.
“Oh my goodness, you should see your face.” I wiped at my tears of hilarity, and damn—after the last twelve hours—it felt good to laugh. “Come on now. Relax! I’m kidding, okay? You and I are not engaged. You can stop freaking out.”