Page 46 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

“Ha,” I grunted, grabbing the pills and the water from the bedside table. I downed them, letting the cool water soothe my dry throat.

Whatever. He could be nice when he wanted to be, and I owed him for driving me home, even if I’d been reluctant at the start.

The whole Gatlin thing? That had been a drunken mess. Conjuring up a plan to have him hit on me just to make Beau jealous was stupid, completely out of character, but I needed to set better boundaries between us.

No more flirting. No more mixed signals.

As much as I’d like to avoid him entirely, that wasn’t realistic because he worked with Kline and lived in town. I could make sure we kept our distance—at least emotionally. I needed to, for my own sake.

I grumbled as I got out of bed, my head pounding and my chest tight. My shoes and socks were gone, my shirt still clung to me, and my pants were missing. The shirt hung long enough to cover me, but the thought of Beau undressing me made my stomach twist.

“Ugh,” I groaned, the panic rising.

Did he see? Did he see my undies?

I glanced around the room, and it was like the walls were closing in. The air felt thick, dirty. Germs. Everywhere. I could see them—on the bed, on the sheets, on my skin.

My skin.

Sleeping in yesterday’s bar clothes—in bed—was unbearable. The sheets needed to be stripped. I needed to be stripped. My heart pounded harder, and my breathing quickened as the weight of it crushed me.

I bolted to the bathroom, yanking my shirt off the second I crossed the threshold. The mirror caught my reflection, and I turned away, focusing on the sink. My hands were under the water before it even warmed up, scrubbing furiously.

No one will love me. No one will take care of me. I don’t deserve it. I’m nothing. I’m no one. I’m dirty.

Dirty.

Dirty.

Dirty.

The word throbbed in my head, and I scrubbed harder, my knuckles aching as I dragged my hands over my arms, my chest. I couldn’t get it off.

Happy Birthday to me . . . happy birthday to me . . . happy birthday, dear Fable, happy birthday to me.

I sang it under my breath and tried to drown out the thoughts, the noise, the panic clawing at my throat.

The mirror caught my eye again, and this time, I couldn’t look away. My naked body stood there, trembling, raw and exposed. I hated it. Hated the way I looked, hated the way my skin felt, hated the flaws screaming back at me.

Mike was right.

No one would love me. No one could love me. Not like this. Not the way I was.

I was deep in thought, tears streaking down my face, when I swore I heard someone in the front room.

Perfect. Mid-panic attack, my skin rubbed raw and red, tears still falling, and I had to deal with someone breaking and entering into my house. I lived in the middle of nowhere, and of course, my phone was nowhere to be found.

I grabbed the first weapon I could find, a towel, naturally, and bolted out of the bathroom, waving it in front of me like it was some kind of weapon. My somewhat brilliant plan was to whip the intruder into submission. I was going to hope for the best and distract them enough to get my phone and call 9-1-1.

I burst into the living room, flinging the towel like a lunatic, and froze.

“AHHHH,” I screamed. Full-on shrieked, because there, standing in my living room, was Beau.

His mustache was neatly trimmed, and he was dressed like some goddamn cowboy calendar model—jeans, a massive belt buckle, a denim button-down that clung to him in all the right places. In his hands, he held two coffees and a brown paper bag, like him being in my space was completely normal.

And then there was me. Naked. Towel in hand. Mid-breakdown.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I shouted and clutched the towel to my body, fully ready to die from embarrassment on the spot.