Another memory came the longer I stared. A cool washcloth on the back of my neck and a deep, soothing voice in my ear.
I fought another mortified groan. Jack had been forced to take care of me. Last night, I had clearly been the worst sort of person: an inconvenience. I hated—hated—putting people out. That was why I always made sure I was on time, didn’t ask for favors, obsessively washed my hands so I didn’t get sick, and never let myself be a nuisance.
The only thing worse than being an inconvenience was being a politician or maybe a male podcaster.
With a deep breath, I peeked around the corner of the doorframe into the hallway. To the right was a closed door. And to the left was—shoot. I pulled my head back distressingly quickly, fighting nausea. If I was a turtle, I would have been back inside my shell.
Despite my effort to remain unseen, a deep voice called out a moment later, “Come on out, Clyde.”
I frowned and then stepped into the hallway. “It’s Clark, actually.” Jensen, technically, but most people in town still thought of me as part of the Clark bunch.
Jack was right where I’d briefly spied him. In a comfy-looking chair, relaxed and sipping coffee in a masculine living room.
“Nah, it’s your new nickname,” he countered around a sip of caffeine. “We worked it out last night. Don’t you remember?”
I swallowed awkwardly. “Afraid not.”
The coffee smelled amazing. Perhaps my gaze was a little lusty on his mug because Jack tipped his head toward the kitchen. “There’s half a pot left. Help yourself.”
Help myself.
I’d been helping myself and everyone else for as long as I could remember.
When I stood there too long, contemplating my pathetic existence, Jack cleared his throat.
That got my feet moving. I hurried into the kitchen. The floor plan was open, and only a small island separated the two rooms. There wasn’t room for a kitchen table, but all the appliances were top-of-the-line stainless steel numbers that I would have handed over my secret recipe for beef Stroganoff to own.
A clean striped mug was already sitting out on the dark granite countertop, next to sugar in a ramekin and a pint of half-and-half. My hand paused on the mug, wondering if Danny had ever gotten a mug out for me. Or topped off my glass or anticipated any of my needs. He sure as hell had never put them ahead of his own.
I shook off those bitter ex-wife thoughts and poured some coffee into the existential-crisis mug. Then I dumped in a healthy spoonful of sugar, followed by an even healthier splash of half-and-half. I stirred the sweet, creamy mixture with the sugar spoon and then washed it in the sink with the dish detergent and brush stored neatly in the nearby sink caddy. I placed the spoon in the drying rack before picking up my coffee and returning to the living room.
My instinct had been to leave immediately. Actually, my instincts were ill-prepared for this situation. In my wildest dreams, I could not have imagined a scenario where I got wasted in public and then went home with the town’s motorcycle-riding bad boy, whom I may or may not have slept with but definitely vomited in front of.
If I considered it much longer, I was going to spiral. I would pour this cup of hot coffee over my head before I allowed myself to have a panic attack in front of Jack Ellis, though.
I engaged my lifelong civility and Southern manners and sat down on the leather couch so I could apologize for my behavior in his home and his place of business (I vaguely recalled people shouting “Chug!” while I obliged wholeheartedly). My behind sank comfortably onto the smooth surface. Was this where Jack had slept while I’d occupied his bed? Or had he been in there with me and woken up first?
When I managed to gather my nerve, I looked over to the man in the armchair. Jack was back to drinking his coffee and ignoring me. He was reading a thick hardcover book, and my gaze briefly snagged on the way his fingers turned a page.
Another memory, sharp as a thumbtack, hit me the longer I stared. A calloused touch. Fingers oh-so-gently brushing the hair away from my face and a low voice asking,What do you need?
I swallowed, startled by the remembered question. It was so ... direct and ... something else. Most people asked what you wanted or how they could help.What do you need?That put to mind care and comfort, priorities and unwavering focus.
But that was silly. Jack didn’t even know me.
I forced my attention away from his long fingers resting on the page of his book. But then my gaze caught unexpectedly on the slim, round wire-framed reading glasses perched on his nose.
Looking away, I blinked several times while my brain misfired. Were bad boys farsighted?
I took another sip. The coffee was sweet—just the way I liked it—and it helped make my thoughts more coherent. For a moment, they’d simply been wheeze-filled internalizing ...glassesandjaw scruffandbare feetandhot motorcycle manbefore fizzling out into the mental equivalent of drooling.
“Thank you,” I blurted inelegantly. “For your help last night. I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused and for the way I conducted myself at Magnolia. It was unbecoming.”
It took some effort, but I turned to face Jack, who watched me with an amused expression. “That was a very, uh, formal apology for what went down.”
My eyes widened, unsure of his meaning, before sudden panic flared and I burst out, “Did we have sex?”
His expression went stony. “Sorry, comatose isn’t really my type. The snoring was mighty tempting, though.”
