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“Congratulations,” Easy grumbled. Well, she’d understood that, at least.
“I cook dinner. On Poker Night. It’s a thing. Anyway, I heard you were coming and I made you all kinds of things.”
In the kitchen, she set about arranging dishes on the island counter.
“It’s shrimp and grits,” she announced, uncovering a large dish. “And beignets for dessert. ‘Cause you’re from New Orleans. And I thought you might be missing home a little.”
Easy looked over the spread and grunted. After a few moments of silence, he shook his head, flung open the back door, and walked out. Chris, pissed off at the younger man’s rudeness, started to follow him but Hayley stopped him.
“Just take this to the table,” she ordered, picking up the serving bowl of biscuits and pushing it at him. Hayley sent the rest of the men to the dining room with the food. She herself opened a cabinet next to the stove.
Stepping onto the back deck, the night breeze was nice. She plunked down a bottle and two glasses, placing one of them in front of Easy. He glared at the bottle, then at her.
“I’m from New Orleans, remember?” he snapped sarcastically.
Hayley settled into the chair across from him. “Oh, they have a law there that says you can’t drink Kentucky bourbon?” She didn’t wait for answer as she poured them both a drink. She picked up hers and, reluctantly, Easy picked up his. She grimaced at the taste. Easy scowled but underneath it was a smirk.
“Drink much?” he asked her.
“Not even a little,” she admitted, and took another sip.
He shook his head. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“On the contrary,” she said, blowing out a breath at the sting of the alcohol. “I give up all the time.”
Easy snorted. “So how do I get you to give up on me?”
Hayley eyed him over her glass and shrugged. “If you give up on yourself, what does it even matter what I do?”
Easy had no answer to that, so he just took another drink.
When Easy was on his second glass, Hayley still her first, she said, “They’re real grits, you know. Not instant.”
Easy considered this. “Haven’t had real grits in a long time,” he confided.
“They take a whole 25 minutes longer to cook than instant.”
He smirked again. “A whole 25 minutes?”
Hayley hiccuped. “Yep.”
“Well, maybe I feel like grits,” he finally acquiesced. “Since you went to so much trouble.”
“Good,” she said, standing up. She swayed a little and grabbed the back of the chair. “Come inside and I’ll get a plate for you.”
“Maybe you ought to lie down,” Easy said as they stepped inside the kitchen.
She waved him away. “I will later. I don’t think I’m making it home tonight.”
“You live next door,” Easy pointed out.
Hayley shrugged and spooned up some shrimp and grits.
Chapter 14
At the end of her shift on Monday, Hayley stretched out in her tub and closed her eyes. Chris hadn’t been home when she’d gotten off work and she was mulling over asking him over for the spaghetti and meatballs she’d made this afternoon. She dried off and was pulling a t-shirt over her head when she heard a sound like breaking glass coming faintly from Chris’ house. Frowing she looked out her bedroom window, but Chris’ window was dark and she couldn’t see anything.
She threw on her shoes and peeked out the front window. His bike was in the driveway. No other cars. She grabbed her keys, locked her door, and cautiously made her way to Chris’ front porch. She heard no other sounds coming from his house. She knocked, but there was no answer.
Hayley twisted the knob and was surprised that the front door opened. She stepped inside and saw Chris stumbling toward the kitchen. She frowned and headed toward him. He pitched forward, grabbed the edge of the breakfast bar. She gasped and reached out for him. “Chris!” she said, grabbing his arm. He turned suddenly, his arm along with him, clocking her in the lip with his elbow. She fell backwards on to the floor and Chris landed in a heap next to her.
She groaned and touched her bottom lip, coming away with blood. Ignoring it, she turned her attention on Chris who was unconscious on the floor next to her. “Chris,” she said, shaking his shoulder. No response. “Chris!”
It didn’t look as though he’d hit his head on anything, and when the smell of booze hit her, she didn’t think he had a head injury. She looked around and spied an empty bottle of bourbon on the coffee table. Shifting to her knees, she grabbed Chris’ arm and tugged. “Chris, you have to get up,” she told him. He moaned a little, but didn’t respond. She pulled harder. “You can’t stay on the floor.”
He was more than twice her size and she wasn’t budging him off the hard tile of the kitchen floor. Sighing in frustration, she sat down next to him, trying to decide what to do. Eventually she went through his pockets, finding nothing. She searched the kitchen and came up with his cell phone, charging on the counter. She began scrolling through the contacts.
