Page 4 of Wrong Number Right Cowboy
She’s always been a bit of a lightweight. I’d lost count of how many nights I had to carry her home because she passed out from two or three drinks made too strong.
Hell, I think I’ve missed the days of tucking her into bed. Sawyer has always been a bit strong willed and independent, which I’ve always fucking admired about her. But I also really enjoyed the times she let her guard down and let me take care of her.
I pull back the covers and put her in my bed, but I don’t get the covers pulled over her legs before her eyes fly wide open and she slaps a hand over her mouth.
I move out of the way as she makes a beeline for the bathroom. I give her a moment before following her inside. As I’ve done so many times before, I sit my ass on the side of the soaker tub I installed just for her and pull back her hair.
In some twisted way, it’s as though no time has passed.
But deep inside the caverns of a heart that hasn’t been fucking whole since the day she refused the ring and fled, reality echoes a warning not to get caught up in the past. Because the minute she’s done here, she’ll head right back to her fancy life in the city and forget I fucking exist.
3
SAWYER
My head pounds violently,as though someone is drilling an icepick into the side of it. The scent of sandalwood and spice surrounds me, a gentle comfort in my agony. Something wet brushes my cheek, and I force my eyes open.
“Thunder?”
The Australian shepherd mix snuggles in closer against me, licking my cheeks eagerly. Despite how absolutely fucking terrible I feel, I can’t help but giggle. I wrap my arms around him and hug him close.
“I had the weirdest dream last night. Wait, how are you here?”
A loud boom of thunder shakes the house, and Thunder whimpers. I try to hold him close, but it’s no use. The pup wriggles out of my arms and dives under the bed.
“Some things never change, huh boy?”
I rub the sleep out of my eyes, regretting every single sip of that potent blue tropical drink from last night. Vowing as I have so many times before to never drink again. But the older I get, the more I mean it. I feel like fucking death warmed over. I know Mel had good intentions, but damn that drink was lethal.
It hurts to turn my head against the pillow, but I’m thankful that when I put forth the effort, I discover a glass of water and a couple of painkillers beside it.
I swallow them immediately and empty the glass.
Something feels odd about where I am, but I’m too miserable to try to piece it together. Rain patters heavily against the metal roof, and I allow my eyes to drift closed as another rumble of thunder sounds.
“I know you’re awake, Sunshine.”
My entire body stiffens in shock at the sound of that voice. Am I so damn hungover that I’m hallucinating? Maybe I got alcohol poisoning, and I’m really at the hospital having my stomach flushed. Because there is no way I should be hearing Boone Montgomery’s voice outside of some loopy ass dream.
“I want to sleep,” I grumble.
“You need to eat something,” Boone insists.
“I need a skull transplant.”
“Maybe Mel can help you out with one when she gets here,” Boonie adds.
Okay, not dreaming.
“Why am I here?”
“Because you called me.”
“I definitely did not.” I’ve done some stupid things under the influence of fruity cocktails. But drunk dialing Boone has never been one of them.
“Check your phone if you don’t believe me,” he dares.
I force my eyes open again, and sure enough, Boone Montgomery is standing there in the delicious flesh, propped against the doorway of his bedroom. The unfairly sexy cowboy is wearing a pair of gray sweatpants that should be fucking illegal. It doesn’t matter that I have the headache from hell’s inner circle or that I might retch again. My nipples pebble at the sight of the shirtless man.
