Page 15 of Awaiting the Storm (Wildhaven #1)

M y head is splitting open—or at least, it feels like it is about to.

The first thing that hits me when I open my eyes is regret.

The sunlight streaming through my bedroom window is blindingly bright, and my mouth feels as if I sucked on cotton balls all night.

I groan and roll over onto my back, pulling the pillow from beneath my head to cover my face and shield myself from the harsh light of day.

Unfortunately, the movement jostles my stomach, triggering a fresh wave of nausea that rises in my throat.

My leg brushes against something warm and soft.

I move the pillow to the side and glance down.

I’m in nothing but an extra-large button-up flannel shirt. And it ain’t mine.

I sit up too fast and nearly topple back again, head swimming.

I blink until the room goes still, gripping the edge of the bed like it’s an anchor tethering me to the earth.

The shirtsleeves are too long, and the hem hits high on my thighs.

I tug the collar up over my nose and inhale deeply. Sandalwood, sweat, and whiskey.

Oh God.

Caison.

The name hits me like a ton of bricks, and suddenly, my brain stutters to life, memories flickering behind my eyes like a busted neon sign.

Music pumping loudly at The Soused Cow. Me dancing with Caison.

Me dancing with Carl. His hand too low on my back, too familiar.

Me pulling away and leaving him standing on the dance floor.

His declaration that he wasn’t giving up on us.

Then Caison—God, Caison—tall and dark, watching me from the shadows near the bar.

His jaw ticking and stare intense. Then I was in Caison’s arms again, swaying to a slow song.

His strong hands gripping my waist possessively.

The way his lips brushed my ear when he spoke to me, causing my skin to prickle. Then tequila. So much tequila.

I groan again, dragging myself from the bed, my bare legs protesting with every step toward the bathroom. As I pass by my dresser, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’m a disheveled mess.

I stumble into the bathroom and flick on the light, squinting as I examine myself more closely.

The reflection doesn’t lie. I look like the aftermath of a storm—wild and shaken.

My hair’s a tangled mess, mascara smudged under my bloodshot eyes, cheeks flushed, lips pink and swollen, like they’ve been … kissed.

Shit.

More memories begin to trickle in.

Carl and Caison shouting in the parking lot.

Cabe trying to shove himself between them, arms out, holding them apart.

Caison stripping off his outer shirt and wrapping it around my bare shoulders because I was shivering in the freezing night air in my thin, sleeveless dress.

The feel of his fingers brushing the skin at my collarbone.

The sound of his voice, low and patient, like he was trying very hard to keep his temper at bay.

Him helping me climb up into his truck.

Me huddled inside with my hands against the vents as the heat blasted into the cab, falling asleep against the window and then waking up, cradled in Caison’s arms as he carried me up the porch steps.

Charli unlocking the front door for us. Her delighted smirk. The way she didn’t say a damn word, just opened the door and let him carry me right up the stairs.

The way I clung to him. Wrapping my arms around his neck. Pressing my mouth to his.

Oh God, Matty.

I brace my hands on the edge of the sink, breathing through the memories.

His mouth on mine. The way he kissed me—hot, hungry, like he’d been dying to do it. And me? I kissed him back with equal fervor. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just passion and need and the rush of something that felt dangerously close to losing control.

And then …

Him pulling away.

Him staring down at me like it physically hurt him to walk out the door.

Me reaching for him as he stepped back.

Him whispering, “Don’t,” before backing away and slipping out into the hallway, leaving the door cracked and the scent of him lingering in the room.

Charli and Shelby rushing in not a minute later. My dress half off already, their hands tugging the zipper and removing it. Charli sliding the flannel back over my shoulders and buttoning it up. Their laughter soft and sweet as they eased me into the bed and covered me with a blanket.

And now?

Now I’m standing in my bathroom, wrapped in the shirt of a man I barely know, regretting just about everything that happened. I don’t lose control. Not like that. Not anymore.

Dammit.

I knew going out was a mistake.

I peel the shirt off slowly and step into the shower.

The hot water is a balm on my aching body, but it can’t wash away the mortification I feel.

I scrub at my skin like I can erase the memory of last night.

Like I can undo the way I looked at Caison.

The way I wanted him. The way it felt to be touched by him. To kiss him.

I don’t know what I thought was going to happen. That he’d stay? That he’d climb into bed beside me in my Daddy’s home, with my grandparents sleeping down the hall, and—

No.

I shake the thought from my mind and reach for my shampoo. This isn’t me. I don’t kiss random men. I don’t throw myself at strangers just because they smell good and are good-looking and are gentle when I’m too drunk to walk.

And he was gentle. He took care of me. Wrapped me up in his flannel. Carried me like I weighed nothing. Held me like I was precious cargo.

I dry off and pull on a pair of jeans and an old gray T-shirt. My hair is still damp, but I don’t have the energy to do anything else with it. I pad barefoot down the stairs, one hand braced on the railing, the other gripping the wall to keep myself from tumbling headfirst down to the main floor .

The smell of bacon hits me halfway down the stairs, and my stomach growls despite the queasiness.

I step into the kitchen and find Grandma Evelyn sitting at the table, her hair pinned in a neat bun, with a cup of coffee in hand, legs crossed at the ankles, newspaper sprawled in front of her.

“Good morning,” she says without looking up from the paper, her voice chipper.

“Not really,” I croak, stumbling toward the coffee maker.

“I was about to come check you for a pulse. The girls said you got in pretty late.”

“We didn’t wake you and Grandpa, did we?” I ask.

“Oh, no. We sleep like the dead,” she replies.

“Well, I feel like the dead,” I say as I open the cupboard and grab a ceramic mug.

I pour myself a massive cup of black coffee and sink into the chair across from her, tucking my legs underneath me. My hands shake slightly as I lift the mug to my lips and take a sip. The dark liquid helps to bring my bones to life.

“You do look like death warmed over,” she adds, giving me a once-over.

“Feel worse than that. If that’s even possible.”

She sets the paper down and leans forward, peering at me over the rim of her reading glasses. “So, how was your night? Better than your morning, I hope.”

I groan and drop my head to the table with a thud. “Can we not?”

“Oh, honey.” Her voice softens, laced with amusement and a hint of concern. “It couldn’t have been that bad.”

“Not bad,” I mumble into the wood. “Just … it’s all a little fuzzy. And I hate that feeling.”

She hums and squeezes my hand. “I’ve kept your breakfast warm. Food makes everything better.”

She stands and walks to the stove, opening it and pulling out a plate covered in foil. The smell of eggs and bacon fills the kitchen, and despite the turmoil roiling in my belly, I feel a swell of appreciation for the woman who somehow always knows what I need.

“So, tell me everything,” she chimes. “Did you enjoy the band?”

I groan again.

“Come on. I’m an old woman. I have to live vicariously through you girls.”

“From what I can remember, yes. They put on a good show, and my achy legs tell me we danced a lot.”

“And I’m assuming you drank a lot too. Tequila?” she asks, her knowing eyes landing on mine as she walks back to the table.

I frown.

“That’s a yes,” she says, chuckling as she sets the plate in front of me and sits back down. “You girls never learn.”

I force myself to sit up and pick at the food. It’s delicious, but it’s a fight to keep every bite down.

“I take it that flannel shirt wasn’t yours,” she says, sipping her coffee.

My eyes snap to hers.

She shrugs. “I peeked in on you earlier.”

I choke slightly on a bite of egg.

She smirks.

I shake my head, cheeks suddenly hot. “I—”

She grins. “Carl’s?” she guesses.

I shake my head, and she raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

I drop my fork and lean back in my chair. “I don’t know, Grandma. One second, I was dancing, and the next, I was kissing a man I barely knew and waking up in his shirt. Now I’m sitting here, trying to remember whether or not I imagined it all.”

“Oh, you didn’t imagine it,” she says, patting my hand.

“How do you know?”

“Well, first of all, the shirt isn’t imaginary. It’s very real. Second of all, Charli filled me in. Said Caison was a gentleman. Said he took care of you when the rest of them were falling all over themselves and Carl was being a royal ass.”

So, she knew it wasn’t Carl’s all along. Playing dumb to pull a confession from me. Sly old woman.

I press my hands over my face. “I’m never drinking again.”

“Sure you will,” she says sweetly, standing and carrying her cup to the sink.

I glance at her, half smiling. “Have you ever … kissed someone you weren’t particularly fond of and immediately regretted it?”

She pauses, her back to me, rinsing her mug. “Yes.”

I wait, but she doesn’t elaborate.

“Did you ever do it and not regret it?” I ask quietly.

She turns and looks at me, eyes soft. “Yes.”

“Well, you’re no help,” I say on a laugh that causes pain to shoot across my head. I rub my temples, but it doesn’t help.

The corner of her mouth lifts in amusement. “Oh, Matty, honey, what you have to figure out is whether the regret you’re feeling is about the kiss … or what you think it might mean.”

I stare into my coffee, heart pounding like a drum in my chest. “Like what?”

“Like maybe you are particularly fond of him.”

I don’t regret kissing him. I think I might want to do it again. And that’s the damn problem.

I regret him walking away.