Page 6 of Mourner for Hire

THREE

DOMINIC

My fingers dance along the warm skin of her spine. My heart is softly drumming against her cheek, and I feel entirely content. It’s not every day an out-of-towner slips into my bar, gets drunk, cries, and winds up in my bed to just… snuggle.

She hums, nuzzling into the crook of my neck. I don’t want to wake her. Her presence is oddly comforting even if it is unfamiliar.

“Oh, shit!” She springs from the bed, grabbing her clothes off the floor and putting them on as quickly as possible, her gaze buried in the floor. “This is not me. I don’t do this. Oh my God! Who gets crazy drunk and sleeps with the bartender!”

“That’s what we call inside thoughts, Vada,” I say, my voice still sleepy.

Her jaw drops, and horror fills her eyes as she looks away. Her brown hair falls in her face, like a velvet curtain at the end of a show.

“You okay?” I ask.

“No,” she whisper-screams. “I have never had a one-night stand, but alas, here I am: absolutely mortified in this apartment above a bar I got wasted in last night then we made out and did God-knows-what after I… oh, God, I cried ! ”

“You did a lot more than cry,” I say. She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. “Headache?”

“You.” She points at me, her breath hissing through her teeth.

I throw my hands up as I sit back against the wrought-iron headboard. The cold metal digs into my bare back. “What?”

“Oh,” she breathes out, her head mechanically tilting like she’s possessed by the spawn of all her feminist rage. She grabs her dress off the floor and holds it up against her bra. “I can’t believe you would do this.”

“Do what?”

Now, listen, I know how it looks, but I figured she had some recollection of last night.

“Oh, how convenient for you to not remember either.” She hocks out the words like they’re made of bile.

“Vada, we didn’t sleep together.”

She freezes. I can see the cold prickle of embarrassment puncturing her angry expression. She looks around the room like she’s looking for evidence or clues to piece together her evening.

“You were upset, and we talked and cried—well, you cried. A lot. But it was fine. Then you just wanted me to hold you.”

“The details are fuzzy for me,” she confesses. She stares at me, her clothes a rumpled mess and her hair sticking up on one side with cheeks shiny and flushed from a night of crying. “Are you sure we didn’t sleep together?”

“Positive,” I answer, and she keeps glaring at me. “Look, Vada, the kiss was great, but I don’t sleep with women in the middle of a mental breakdown.”

She snorts, and her lips twitch to smile, but she doesn’t allow it. She crosses her arms and asks, “Then why are we naked?”

“Because you’re hot!” I practically shout, gesturing toward her and then gripping my hair as I correct myself.

“I mean that literally. Sleeping with you is like sleeping with a furnace that was cranked on high on a warm August day. You are like the middle of a Hot Pocket right after you take it out of the microwave. It burns, and it’s very uncomfortable even if it tastes good, and I got sweaty…

” My voice trails, embarrassment licking up my neck into my cheeks. “Your face is fine, too.”

She narrows her eyes at the almost-compliment.

“You’re beautiful.” I stumble over the words, barely making eye contact. “I don’t want you to think I don’t find you attractive or anything, but I mean, you were drunk-drunk, Vada. And crying and emotional and?—”

“I got it. I got it.” She cuts me off before I can elaborate on her mojito antics. She groans. “This is why I don’t drink.”

“Clearly. I mean, you had four drinks, which is more than enough for most people, but they weren’t that strong. You went from zero to hero in two mojitos, a shot, and a beer.”

Her mouth twists like she wants to laugh.

“I kissed you, didn’t I?” she whispers, and I nod. “Sorry about that.”

“I kissed you back. I’m sorry. I was drinking, too.” I shrug.

I’ll admit I don’t normally drink when customers are present, but it was an off-day, and by the time everyone left, I felt like I was having drinks with an old friend.

And if I’m honest with myself, I wanted to kiss her the moment she ran into the bar needing to pee.

She came in like a tornado, dropping down from the sky and wreaking havoc on my idea of complacent singlehood.

She had me opening the bar to everyone in town who doesn’t normally come in due to the location.

She was an inconvenience, in all honesty. But I didn’t mind it.

She nods, pressing her eyes closed as she slips her jacket over her shoulders.

I want to tell her to open her eyes so I can memorize the color—a stunning mix of gray and green.

I want to tilt her chin and make her look at me and tell her I still find her interesting and want to make her breakfast today and take her to dinner tonight.

I watch her eyes fall to my abdomen as it flexes when I reach for my glasses on the nightstand.

The white sheet pulls away, barely revealing the top of my boxers, but she clearly feels the need to look away.

Fortunately for me, it doesn’t last long as her gaze comes right back to me, like a ship to a lighthouse.

“You wear glasses?” she asks like it’s a problem.

“Just until I put in my contacts,” I answer, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. I can feel her gaze on every inch of me. I can also see her restraint. Her inner turmoil—an argument with herself to not check me out. It’s amusing, really.

“I—I have to go. I have a meeting,” she says, raising her eyes to fully look at me.

Damn, her eyes. Olive skin and ashy brown hair with eyes that are moody yet playful.

Her jaw drops slightly as she soaks in the sight of me, and she swallows hard, pulling her jaw back in place and swallowing whatever thought just crossed her mind.

“Your dress is on backwards.”

“I’ll fix it later,” she says quickly, slapping a hand over her eyes. “Please put your pants on.”

“Relax,” I tell her. “I have sweats on.”

My effort to calm her nerves are no match for the level of frazzle she is reaching.

“Oh, I saw your jeans on the floor, and I assumed—” She shakes her head. “I’m so embarrassed. How do I not remember anything?”

“You drank a little too much and got emotional, which is partly my fault, considering I was the one serving you,” I answer.

“You promise we didn’t have sex?”

Sympathetic regret boils in my gut. There’s nothing like the riddled anxiety that pours through your veins after a night of drinking too much and doing something stupid. I feel her pain.

I smirk before I toss on a black T-shirt.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re putting on clothes because you are very attractive and I have mascara under my eyes and my clothes on backwards.”

I ignore her comment. “The last coherent thing you said to me was that I smelled good for having a dog’s name. And forgive me, but I do like to be wooed a little bit before giving it all away.”

This does it. It makes her smile—the shame and tension melting away from her face. The torture in her expression evaporates with her perfect smile.

“Please don’t tell anybody about this.”

“I would never.” I smile softly.

She starts walking backward to the door. Slowly. Like she’s afraid I’m going to pounce on her. She snaps and points with her thumb over her shoulder. “I really gotta go. I wasn’t supposed to stay over. I wasn’t supposed to, um, do—” she clears her throat and winces, “—this?”

I smile, my eyes dancing over her. She’s a hot mess of a human right now, and yet, I still find her interesting.

“Would you like some coffee before you go? Breakfast? You shouldn’t work on an empty tummy.”

She smiles. “Oh, such a manly man using the word tummy is rather adorable,” she says but shakes her head. “No, thank you. I need to go. I…” She holds out her hand to shake mine. “Thank you?”

I let out a breath of a laugh.

“You’re welcome?” I question back, shaking her hand.

“All right.” She clears her throat. “Can I use your bathroom?”

“Of course,” I say, then nod across the room. “Right through there.”

I watch her walk through, trying to identify this feeling warming inside me. It’s more than attraction. It’s not just that she’s gorgeous and smart and funny. And it’s more than the fact that she has no right being as cute as she is when she’s this embarrassed.

When the door clicks closed, I’m convinced I already have it bad for her.