Page 15 of Wrecked (McIntyre Security Bodyguard #16)

I’m sitting alone at the bar in the penthouse.

Beth and Shane have turned in for the night.

The place is dark. It’s just me, the nighttime city skyline, and a bottle of Glenlivet.

I pour another shot and knock it back. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve had tonight, but it’s not nearly enough because I’m still conscious.

I’m pretty sure I just made the biggest mistake of my life. I should never have slept with Sam. He’s not a one-and-done kind of guy. And I’m not boyfriend material. The first, and only, time I had a boyfriend, it ended in tragedy. I swore I’d never get that close to anyone ever again.

I grew up in the South in the sixties and seventies. It was a different time. A lot of the guys today are open about their sexuality. Hell, they go fearlessly to gay clubs, to dance and drink and maybe hook up with someone. As for me, I’m so far back in the closet, I can’t see daylight.

The problem is, I can’t get Sam out of my head. I couldn’t sleep last night. I picked up my phone half a dozen times with an urge to call him, apologize for the abrupt way I ended our night together.

The truth is, I panicked.

Being with Sam was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I’m used to wham-bam-thanks-pal. But last night was something completely different. It wasn’t just my cock getting off. My head and my heart were involved, too, and that’s a first for me.

I’m too restless to sleep, so I take the private elevator down to his floor, get off, and walk down the hall to his unit. It’s after one in the morning, so the hallway is quiet. I stand at his door like a stalker. All I have to do is knock or ring his bell, and I’ll see him again.

But then what? Apologize? Make excuses? Ask if I can come in? Take him to bed again and compound my mistake? God knows I want to—take him to bed again, I mean. Not make things worse.

I probably stand there for twenty minutes before I hear the elevator doors open. Two people walk out, speaking in hushed voices. Fortunately, they’re heading in the opposite direction, so they don’t see me mooning in front of Sam’s apartment like an idiot.

Damn it.

I should go before someone sees me.

I head back up to the penthouse, knock back one more shot of whiskey, and head to my room, where I crash on the bed and try in vain not to think about what it felt like having Sam lying here beneath me.

He’s so sweet and good and honest—all things I don’t deserve.

* * *

Sunday morning, I’m in the kitchen nursing a hangover when Shane shuffles into the room in a pair of sweats and a plain white tee. He’s barely awake himself.

“I smell coffee.” He groans. “Thank God.”

“Of course, you do,” I snap. “When do I ever not make coffee first thing in the morning?”

“Hey,” he says. “I was just making small talk.”

“Well, don’t bother. It’s too early for that. Why are you up this early on a Sunday?”

Shane grabs a coffee mug out of the cupboard and pours himself a cup. “I can see you have a hangover.”

“What of it?”

Shane frowns. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Really? Because you’re not acting fine.”

Irritated, I grab my coffee and walk out of the kitchen and down the hall to my room. Apparently, I’m not fit for company.

It’s been forty-eight hours since Sam and I—since he was here. I haven’t heard a single word from him since.

And why should I hear from him? I treated him like shit. He has every right to be done with me.