Page 100 of Let It Breathe
Or to throw at his head.
“Let me get this straight,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. “You have no recollection of drunkenly sleeping with me fifteen years ago, but you remember boning my cousin under the same circumstances?”
Clay winced and shook his head. “I thought maybe I kissed you once—that party over in McMinnville? But I?—”
“Don’t recall fucking me?”
Clay cringed again, then let out a slow, shaky breath. “Please don’t call it that.”
“What should I call it then? Burping the worm? Batter-dipping the corndog? Riding the baloney pony? Putting the candle in the pumpkin?” Rage had her spewing ridiculous words faster than her brain could keep up. “What is the correct term when one of the participants can’t even remember taking part in it?”
She hated the sound of her own voice, the shrill echo of it in the tiny, damp cab of the truck. But she was too damn hurt to figure out how else to speak.
“Reese, I’m sorry,” Clay said.
He reached for her, but Reese yanked her arm away, too stung for comfort now.
Clay drew his hand back. “I’m so sorry. I can’t explain which things I remember and which things I don’t. There are big chunks of my memory just blacked out. Things I did, things I said—important things. Things I can’t remember at all because I was too drunk?—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she snapped. She tried to meet his eyes but found she couldn’t do it. She looked at the side of the winery barn instead, hoping like hell she wouldn’t cry. Then she wanted to cry anyway, looking at the charred mess of wood and spilled wine. “It doesn’t matter at all, Clay. It really doesn’t.”
“It does matter,” Clay said, and reached out to touch her arm. Reese pulled away.
“Look,” she said, “what happened last night shouldn’t have happened.”
Clay shook his head. “I disagree.”
She ignored him. “And what happened fifteen years ago really shouldn’t have happened. I never should have brought it up.”
“Reese, I wish I could remember?—”
“Don’t,” she said, meeting his eyes at last. She blinked hard against the glare of sun-streaked raindrops on the windshield and something she hoped wasn’t the beginning of tears. “Just don’t, okay? This is awkward enough.”
Clay sighed, then looked down at his boots. “Does Eric know?”
Reese bit her lip, wondering if that was really what he cared about. “About last night or fifteen years ago?”
“Either.”
“No. Your secret is safe. Hell, it was safe from you until I shot off my mouth, wasn’t it?”
She couldn’t believe how stupid she felt. Jesus. She’d thought it had meant something. It sure as hell had meant something to her. She swallowed hard, trying to force the ridiculous lump back down her throat.
“I’m sorry,” Clay whispered.
“Stop apologizing!” Reese snapped. “Just stop. I need to get to work. It’s not a big deal, Clay. Just forget about it, okay?”
“Reese, I?—”
“I mean it, Clay. I don’t want to talk about it. It was just a misunderstanding. A mistake.”
“A mistake,” he repeated.
“A big, stupid mistake. Both times.”
She flung open the door of the truck before he could respond, oddly grateful for the giant hole in the wall of the winery barn. It meant she could walk right though the side of the building and straight to her office without fumbling at doors or feeling his eyes on her as she tried to keep her shoulders from shaking.
Clay sat there in the truck for a few minutes, feeling like he’d just been punched in the gut by a drunken gorilla.
