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Chapter Twelve
Vivian
Usually I wake up with the sunlight streaming in through the window, but the next morning that isn’t the case. I open my eyelids a crack and remember I fell asleep at Nate’s house. My head pounds like a mid-song drum solo. I didn’t mean to stay, or to indulge. It’s too easy to laugh and drink with him.
Way to play it cool, Viv.
I push myself up. I’m not on the couch, and neither is Nate next to me. Unless he pristinely made the other side of the bed, I slept alone last night.
Copious light brightens the hallway. Not so in here. Black blinds are drawn over the windows, blocking the sun. I have no idea what time it is—my cell phone is nowhere to be found.
I make a pit stop to the attached master bathroom, taking advantage of a bottle of mouthwash stashed beneath the sink. I send a longing glance at the stone tiles and shower mounted directly overhead. No time for that. I need to go home.
With my face washed and my hair in a ponytail, I walk downstairs in Nate’s T-shirt and come across him in the living room. He’s wearing cotton drawstring pants and nothing else. With mussed bedhead and a sleepy smile, he couldn’t look better.
“Morning,” he greets, cup of coffee in hand.
“That smells good.”
“Want one?”
“Yes.”
“Cream? Sugar?”
“Cream.”
“Odessa, coffee with cream for my guest,” he calls over his shoulder. A woman’s voice responds.
Instinctively I tug his shirt lower over my thighs. He bends to kiss my forehead.
“Where are my clothes?” I whisper.
“Hanging in the laundry room. I slept on the couch in case you were wondering.”
“What happened to ‘women don’t go to my bed without me’?”
“I don’t sound like that.” He chuckles, a warm sound, as he hugs me against him. “Passed out women do go to bed without me.”
“I didn’t pass out,” I say, my voice small.
“Okay.” Another kiss lands on my forehead as a petite blond woman, probably in her early fifties, breezes into the room with a mug of coffee in hand. She hands it to me, her smile nonjudgmental. As if she’s accustomed to finding half-naked women in Nate’s house in the morning.
“Can I fetch you anything else, Mr. Owen?” she asks.
“No, we’re good.”
“Very well. Your breakfast is on the table, Ms. Vandemark. Have a good day.” With that, Odessa leaves via the front door.
“What time is it?” I sip my coffee. Heavenly.
“Eleven.”
“Eleven! Ow.” I put my hand on my throbbing head. Maybe I did pass out last night. “I have to go.”
“It’s Slow Sunday, Viv.”
“Is that a holiday or something?” I ask, massaging my temple.
