“That’s great.” I could see it. It made sense. I shook my head in wonder, making the room turn lazy woozy circles, or my brain did. I’m not sure which. “Not about your band breaking up, I mean about you being a musician. Are you going to join another band or—”
He made a noise in his throat. “Been trying to put one together. Bass player from the old one’s still on board, but we just haven’t had any luck finding the right people.”
“That sucks.”
“It sure does.”
“So that’s your drama?”
He opened one eye. “Pretty much. Only came back to town to sell this place to my sister. Need to pay off the mortgage, get a little to live on while we find a new singer and drummer, get things sorted out.”
“Your sister, is that Nell who Andy was asking about?”
“Yeah.” His gaze darkened. “She split with her husband a little while back. Figure she’ll be happy to buy the place, have somewhere of her own to live. She always loved this house.”
“It’s beautiful.”
His face softened, relaxing into a smile. “You do love the old Arts and Crafts bungalows.”
“Yes, I do.” When he smiled at me like that … whoa. Let’s just say the house wasn’t the only thing that was beautiful. “I’m sorry you’ve got drama.”
“I’m sorry you’ve got drama too.”
“And I’m sorry I dragged my drama into your house.”
“I know.” He covered my hand with his much larger one. Warm. He was so warm and lovely and stuff. If the shitty day and toxic tequila had left me with an iota more energy I’d run my no-strings-sex-between-new-friends idea past him. As it was, I’d save it up for tomorrow. At least I had my memories of him bare ass naked to keep me happy in the meantime. And trust me, there was real happiness to be had in having seen this man naked. My dreams had better be full of him, or I and my subconscious would be having a serious talk.
“What?” he asked.
“What, what?”
“You’re looking at me funny.”
“Am I?” My jaw cracked loud and proud on a yawn. What a day. I laid my head against his shoulder, getting comfortable, closing my eyes.
“You planning on crashing right there?” he asked.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Okay.”
All I could hear was the in and out of his breathing, the occasional sound of the tequila sloshing about in the bottle as he took a drink. All was calm. Peaceful. For now at least.
“You were a beautiful bride, Lydia.”
I smiled, too close to sleep to speak.
“Beautiful.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Fucking Samantha. If the woman was on fire, I’d make s’mores.
After so gracefully passing out on the kitchen floor, I’d woken up on a bed in the spare room this morning. Everything hurt. I’d stumbled into the kitchen in search of water and seen the latest disaster through the glass doors. My almost-mother-in-law had been busy. Real busy.
With Vaughan’s cool dude aviator sunglasses to guard against the brain-piercing morning glare, I searched the backyard for my belongings. A bra here, a pair of panties there. You never knew what you might find hidden in the long grass.
Why, it was just like a treasure hunt minus the map.
And the fun.
My green silk blouse hung high in a tree and it wasn’t alone. God knows how she’d gotten it all up there. Unleashed her flying monkeys, perhaps? Wicked witch was about right.
A box of books and another filled with personal mementos had been dumped straight over the fence as if they were garbage. I didn’t have the heart to look inside and see what was broken. Every muscle in my jaw ached. I wanted to scream and rage, to let it all out. Again. Only if I started, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop.
A pounding head and queasy stomach didn’t much help matters. I’d done a quick search of the kitchen and come up empty on the Advil front. Tequila, like Samantha, was clearly not my friend. And it had to have been her who’d chucked my stuff over the fence. Chris would have simply paid someone to deliver the lot to the front patio. Thrown cash at the problem to turn it into someone else’s. Such was his style.
No, only his mother would delight in this type of fuckery.
“Vindictive bitch,” I muttered, adding a pair of boyfriend jeans to the growing pile at my feet. Each item retrieved fueled the fury.
There’d better be a special level of hell to reward her for such spite. One without Botox, where no matter what you did, your dark hair roots showed and the only clothing option was unwashed secondhand sweats. That’d teach her.