Page 19

I haven’t been able to stop … Haven’t been able to get you out of my head.

That much I do remember. Between the shots and the punch, I remember kissing him and teasing him and being so pissed off I decided to start walking … oh, fuck.

My eyes squeeze shut. I walked home? What kind of jerk ditches his best friend and runs home pouting, all because he can’t have what he wants. That’s some petulant, tantrum-level shit my cock pulled on me. Sky is never gonna let me live that one down.

Twisting in a barrel roll like the world’s most hungover gator, I turn onto my side and fumble for my phone. There’s a half-empty glass of water and painkillers, but no phone in sight. Fuck yes. Thank you, drunk Brad, for the gift of hangover relief. I knock back the pills and gulp the water like I’ve just been stranded in the Sahara.

I better find my phone and text Sky. She’s gonna have my balls.

It takes a moment to find my feet. The room tilts a little as I stand up. Looking down, I find myself still wearing last night’s clothes. Classy.

With a yawn and scrubbing the sleep outta my eyes, I tug open my bedroom door. Weird fucking choice to close it, drunk Brad, but whatever. And as soon as I step through, I stop dead.

Gaping, I stare at the scene in front of me.

Broad shoulders fill the space by the stove. Sizzling fills the air, and the mouthwatering aroma of a cowboy’s favorite hangover antidote—fatty bacon and fried eggs—drifts my way. There is a man in my kitchen. Cooking.

My stomach swoops. Not just any guy. My guy.

Well … not my guy. But the guy I want to be my guy who can never be my guy. Jesus.

I’m instantly regretting not at least taking a look in the mirror before stumbling out here, and I quickly scrub my face, hoping I’m not all drool and creases imprinted from my pillow. Combing my fingers through my hair real quick, I take a few steps closer.

Is this some kind of drunk-ass dream? Am I dreaming right now?

Flinn whips around upon hearing my footsteps. That jaw and throat looking as bitable as ever. And he’s here in my kitchen, still in his slacks and shirt from last night, with the sleeves rolled to the elbows—fuck him very much. He’s here cooking breakfast looking like every book boyfriend Sky has ever introduced me to with her recommendations.

“You only have four potatoes,” he grunts, brandishing a spatula at me, seeming personally offended by that fact. His eyes flicker over me real fast before he pushes his glasses high up his nose.

Not the fucking glasses.

I open and close my mouth. Still in a Flinn trance as my brain struggles to throw itself into first gear. Right now, I’m the living embodiment of a crunching shifter, stuck grinding the gearbox between neutral and reverse and what the fuck is going on.

“Half a pack of bacon, and not even a dozen eggs. They’re the only things in this kitchen. Yet, you’ve got at least ten cans of cat food and twenty pounds of kibble in that cupboard.” He shakes his head. “You grew up on a ranch. You know about being prepared for winter. What the hell were you planning on eating other than wet cat food and fish-flavored kibble?” Flinn scolds while turning his attention back to the source of greasy heaven cooking in that pan.

Swallowing hard, I sidle past him and pull the box of open cat kibble out of said bare cupboard. “I almost exclusively live on sushi while I’m at college. At this point, I’m pretty sure I’m ninety percent nori and ten percent teriyaki.”

Flinn shakes his head, not looking at me.

With cheeks heating fast and questions starting to cartwheel as my brain wakes the fuck up, I wander out to the spot where I keep Lily’s food bowls on the front porch.

It only takes a second to open the door and take stock of the situation. Holy fuck.

Thick snow blankets everything in easily a foot of fresh powder. It’s one of those mornings that sparkles and glimmers, with the early sun casting a warm glow over the scene. If I wasn’t feeling like the bottom of a tequila bottle rolling through a gutter right now, I’d be snapping a photo. Damn, I really need to find my phone.

Dragging my attention back to my morning cat-food routine, I top up the kibble and do a quick check for signs of paw prints. There’s nothing to be seen, but my eyes do snag on a truck outlined in a puffy white coating outside my front door. But it certainly ain’t my truck I’m looking at.

That realization leaps up and smacks me on the shoulder. Do I see that? Flinn drove me here. I’m suddenly freaking out a little bit about what actually happened after the part where I draw a blank on the events of last night. A shiver roams through me with the icy bite of the air, and I look down to reconfirm that I’m still dressed in what I wore to the ball. So clothes didn’t come off at least—but in my experience that doesn’t mean nothing happened, either.

Christ. Focus. I’ve got a cat that doesn’t belong to me but that I feed every single day to be concentrating on here. Not the man in my house. Hopefully Lily is okay. I really fucking hope she wasn’t stuck outside all night. But she’s a wily fucking thing, a hussy with probably ten different homes all feeding her treats and letting her purr while curled on their lap. I’ll bet she’s more than okay, but I don’t like the idea of her going hungry or being freezing cold either.

As I duck back inside, I blow out a breath. It’s like that dose of fresh air and winter blast just woke me up properly, because I see things in fine detail now. Sharpened and drawn into focus. Fireplace roaring. Kitchen full of delicious breakfast smells. Coffee brewed.

Hot-as-fuck guy cooking for me?

Perhaps I’ve tripped and tumbled into cowboy heaven.

“Hey, so …” I put the box away, then turn and rest my ass on the counter. Using one hand, I ruffle my hair, then shoot a glance and a slightly apologetic wince at the man filling my kitchen. “Did we …?” Making a circle with a finger and thumb, I use the other to poke my forefinger through.