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“My mom’s hangover cure. Espresso with a dash of Fernet Branca, Italian bitters. It’ll help.”
At this point I’d do anything to stop the pounding. Bottoms up. “Where are we?”
“My cabin. We’re up in Mt. Charleston, about forty miles from Vegas and a few miles from the nearest neighbor.”
He had a cabin. I’d been his wife but had no clue. As I surveyed the quaint space, with a large fireplace and cute little kitchen, I had to blink away the tears. Why was I surprised or upset at this point? Clearly, there were so many things I didn’t know about him.
After setting down the cup on the side table, I attempted to move my legs only to frown. What the hell was strapped to my ankle? I pulled the crisp sheet down to find an ice pack fastened with an ace bandage.
“What is this? A scene out ofMisery? Did you kidnap and hobble me?”
He chuckled. “You hurt yourself walking in those ridiculous heels last night.”
The memory hit me. Him getting jealous in the bar and carrying me out. Me twisting my ankle. Shouting something at him. After that, it got hazy in my memory.
“Think you can manage some toast? Or my brothers stopped by this morning, so we have eggs and bacon.”
“I prefer to leave.”
“And go where, exactly? Did you get another place to live?”
“No. Nic offered to let me stay in his condo for the next couple weeks or so.” I managed to swing my legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as the movement affected my head. I realized I was dressed in nothing but Leo’s T-shirt.
“Why am I out of my clothes?”
“Because you had puke on yours.”
“Oh.” All indignation evaporated. Evidently, this was another piece of the evening I couldn’t remember. “Thank you for cleaning me up.”
He stood there, his arms crossed, not making a move to get his car keys or help me to the vehicle. “Leo, I’d like to leave now.” I needed to put space between us before I got my hopes up.
“No.”
“No?”
His mouth took a hard line. “Not until we talk.”
“I don’t need your high-handed bullshit right now. I want to leave, so move out of the way.” Forget the fact I was half naked, suffering from the world’s worst hangover, and had the use of only one foot. I’d crawl if I had to. Dramatic maybe, but pride was a stubborn bitch.
“High-handed would mean I’d force you to eat because you look like skin and bones. High-handed would include me picking you up and carrying you to the bed where I’d fucking tie you up. Don’t test me, Addison.”
“Oh, but I really want to fucking test you.” And I refused to admit it turned me on in the slightest.
We stood there in a standoff while the minutes ticked by. Finally, he made the first move. “Can we de-escalate? All I want is a few minutes to talk to you.”
“Fine. Talk.”
“Not with you looking like your head is splitting open, your foot hurting, and you might puke again. How about I make you some toast for your stomach, get you some Tylenol, and you feel better first?”
“Why not tell me what you have to say now?” I’d rather get this over with.
“Because I have important things to tell you, and although I don’t deserve a second chance, I’ll fight like hell to get one. I figure my chances go up if you’re not feeling like shit.”
A memory slammed into me. “You said last night you ripped up the divorce papers. Were you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“But you never change your mind. You said so. Once your mind is made up, you stick with it.”
