Dragging himself upright only made the agony in his head worse. He sat on the edge of the bed for a few seconds, elbows braced on his knees, until the room stopped threatening to tilt beneath him. His boots lay where he'd kicked them off the night before. His jeans were draped over the chair, and the stale smell of beer clung to everything.
Another round of knocks. “You alive in there?”
“Barely,” he croaked, still loud enough to be heard.
“You look half-dead.”
“I ain't even opened the damn door yet.”
“You don't have to. I can picture it.”
Seth snorted, immediately regretting it when the motion sent another pulse of pain through his head. Pushing himself to his feet, he shuffled into the living room and unlocked the door.
Tucker took one look at him and winced.
“Damn. You look like crap. Put some damn clothes on.”
He glanced down. In a tee that hung low enough to cover the bulge in his boxer briefs, he was decent enough. “Fuck off.”
“I already did with my husband and wife this morning, so I’m good.”
“TMI, boss.”
Tucker offered no apology as he stepped inside, wearing his usual ranch attire and carrying a large brown paper bag in one arm. “Mya made you bacon-on-toast sandwiches with a side of pickles. Best breakfast for a hangover.” He held up the bag. “And Paige sent acetaminophen, a couple of Gatorades, and ginger candies in case your stomach loses the argument. Trust me, they work.”
Seth blinked. “You brought all that over here?”
“Figured you weren't in any shape to hike up to the house.”
“Thanks.” He rubbed a hand over his face. The uncomfortable pressure in his bladder since he'd gotten out of bed intensified, and that was his first priority. “Be right back.”
Tucker jerked his chin toward the hallway. “Take your time. I'll make myself at home.”
He disappeared back into the bedroom and entered the bathroom. A long piss took the edge off one problem. Cold water splashed across his face helped with another. He brushed the nastiness from his tongue and teeth, rinsed his mouth twice, then stared at his reflection for a second.
He still looked like hell.
At least he smelled a little less like it.
When he stepped back into the living room, this time with his jeans on, Tucker had unpacked the bag and arranged everything on the small kitchen table.
“Don't get used to the delivery service,” Tucker said.
No. Under any other circumstances, his boss would've made him drag himself up to the house and endure the good-natured ribbing that came with drinking too much. Today was different.
Seth eased himself into a chair. His legs still felt unsteady, whether from the alcohol, dehydration, or both. He twisted open one of the Gatorades, tossed two acetaminophen into his mouth, and chased them with nearly half the bottle. The cold drink soothed the desert in his mouth and eased the throbbing behind his eyes. It wasn't a miracle cure, but it was a start.
He reached for a sandwich and took a bite. The bacon and toast tasted better than they had any right to after the night he'd had.
For a minute, the only sounds in the apartment were the occasional crinkle of the paper bag and the hum of the air conditioner.
Finally, he looked up. “When we talked after the barbecue... you already suspected, didn't you?”
Tucker rested a hip against the counter and took a moment before answering.
“No. Not then.” He shook his head. “The first Sunday dinner got me wondering. She looked too much like Peter, and the timing fit. But wondering isn't the same as knowing.”
“So, you never lied to me.”
