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Thirteen
Cash rapped on the guest bedroom door the next morning aware of two things. One, Presley was nowhere near waking up since it was before seven o’clock, and two, he’d been a dick last night and that required an apology.
He’d realized that last bit the moment she’d strolled away from him down the hallway, her bare, heart-shaped ass wiggling.
He’d had no idea how to make up for his temper or overreaction at the time, so he’d sat on it. By the time she’d closed her bedroom door—she didn’t slam it, which was somehow worse—he’d muttered to himself about being an idiot and proceeded to lay staring at the ceiling trying to think of a way to make it up to her.
The answer had hit him about an hour ago. He’d been biding his time waiting to go to her room, but he couldn’t wait any longer.
“Pres,” he called, along with another knock.
Her sleepy, slightly grouchy voice sounded through the door a second later. “Go away.”
He shouldn’t, but he smiled. “C’mon. I have coffee.”
Silence. Then, “The coffee I’ll take.”
“Well, you have to answer the door, honey, because my hands are full.” He waited for what felt like a full minute before the door opened a crack. She appeared in the gap all bright blue eyes, a mess of red hair and an FSU T-shirt that’d seen better days. It wasn’t his, but he’d had one like it when he’d gone to school with her.
She couldn’t look any sexier if she tried, but he sure as hell couldn’t open with that.
“Mornin’.” He held up his hands—one of them holding the handles of two coffee mugs and the other wrapped around the neck of his guitar. “The rest of my gift is forthcoming. Can I come in or do I have to serenade you from the hallway?”
He’d been kidding, but she looked as if she might make him stand there while she glared at him through the crack. Luckily, she pulled the door wider, shameless about wearing nothing but a blue pair of panties beneath her T-shirt. Sexy. Damn. She did it for him. Even in a threadbare T-shirt and cotton underpants.
He settled the mugs on the high dresser and then handed her one. “Creamed, like you like it.”
She mumbled incoherently and traipsed back to bed, jamming her legs under the covers, her back propped against the headboard. Her eyes closed as she took the first sip of coffee, a small moan communicating her gratitude. Another thing he’d learned about her years ago: if you show up early, show up with coffee.
He left his own mug and walked to the bed. She braced, but he kept coming until he’d lowered on to the side of the bed, his hip nudging her leg.
“This is called the apology song.” He cleared his throat. Hummed for effect. Then he strummed a few chords and sang.
Dear Presley.
This is my apology.
I didn’t mean to be so mean.
I didn’t mean to be so much me.
Dear Presley.
I brought coffee.
And I’ll do it gleefully.
Until you forgive me.
Will you forgive me?
I hope you forgive me.
I’m so sorry, Presley.
He hummed at the end, set his fingers to the strings and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. Her lips curved up at one corner and she didn’t waste any time taking him to task.
“Gleefully?”she repeated.
