Page 8 of Bone to Pick
Unfortunately, there were none.
The impassible driveway might quickly become an emergency, but according to the town website, it wasn’t yet. Not when all the emergency crews in the area would be busy dealing with actual life-threatening situations, like cars sliding off roads that hadn’t been treated this early in the season and downed trees snapping power lines. Non-emergency vehicles were asked to stay off the streets, meaning no Lyft or Uber driver in Vermont would be coming back out this way voluntarily. And it would be unsafe for Porter to attempt to walk several miles back to town under these conditions, even if he wasn’t still mostly inebriated.
Like it or not, he was stuck here for now.
He could sleep in the chair by the fire, I decided, just as the water shut off in the bathroom. He’d certainly seemed comfortable enough there before.
I heard the bathroom door open and immediately got very busy with tea preparations.
“Your clothes are in the wash, and the tea will be ready in a minute,” I said without turning around.
“Mkay,” he said tiredly.
“The only solution I can figure out right now is that you’ll have to sleepherefor the night.” I waved over my shoulder at the chair and footstool. “It’s not ideal, but your safety is paramount. The good news is, you’ll be warm and dry. And while sleeping upright might have killedmyback on multiple occasions, you’re younger than I am, Sunday, and probably bendier—”Jesus Christ, Theo, do not think about Porter being bendy.“—uh, I mean, much sturdier—”Ditto on thinking about how sturdy he is.“—you shouldn’t have any trouble.”
Porter exhaled deeply, almost a sigh, and I smiled to myself as I added honey to our mugs.
“Yes, well, if you’re unhappy, you only have yourself to blame, Sunday,” I said a trifle smugly. “It’s only for one night, after all. The storm should break for several hours tomorrow, and you can figure out a way home then. Tonight, you can deal with the consequences of your actions like an adult. As the old adage says, beggars who came to hurl angry sonnets at their professors can’t be choosers.”
Porter didn’t reply, clearly unable to find a flaw with my logic.
“Don’t you agree, Sunday?” I persisted.
When Porter didn’t reply that time, I finally turned my head…
And found the man had pulled back my down duvet, curled up on my bed—wearing nothing but a towel, for fuck’s sake, so that acres and acres of damp, tanned skin were on display against the white cotton—and buried his face in my brand-fucking-new memory foam pillow.
“Porter Sunday!” I exclaimed, bouncing the end of the mattress to wake him because I didn’t quite trust myself to touch him in that moment. “Why is your ass in my bed?”
Definitely, definitely do not think about Porter and asses, Theo, you colossal idiot.
Porter stretched out on his back with a lusty groan and spread his legs like a starfish, leaving nothing but the scrap of white terry cloth—Christ, had my bath towels always been so tiny?—standing between me and… insanity.
I swallowed hard.
“I gotHancockedagain,” he whispered.
I sprung away guiltily. “You…what?” I demanded. “Sunday? Wake up right now, you lummox!”
But Porter’s only response was another sigh, followed by a blissful snore.
Apparently, the only adult who’d be dealing with the consequences of their actions this night would beme.
ChapterThree
PORTER
I had always been an early riser—a habit that came from growing up on an orchard where there were chores to be done before school. Getting up early had served me well when I’d started working my way through college as a barista. But the fact that I was waking up to warmth and silence this morning, rather than drafty windows and my roommate’sSabatonplaylist blaring at full volume, was the first clue I wasn’t in my own bed.
Eyes closed, my mind raced through the events of the previous evening, but my memories got a little hazy after the fourth shot of tequila. I rememberedfrantic-mad. I remembered lots of drunken giggling. I remembered Steve, the rideshare driver. I definitely didn’t remember deciding to hook up with anyone or even crash at their place. Besides, no one I knew had pillows quite this comfy.
I cracked one eye open, and the rustic log walls immediately reminded me of where I was.
Professor Theodore Hancock’s cabin.
Shit,right. I’d come to call out my sworn enemywith an angry sonnet. There’d been vomit, which was humiliating, and a tree had fallen right near me, which had been scary, and then… nothing. My mind hit a big, black roadblock of self-protection, like the bits I couldn’t remember were too disgraceful for me to process at the moment.
I stifled a groan. One thing was certain: Dr. Hancock would waste no time filling me in on whatever events had led me to be his uninvited overnight guest. He’d use that very precise, cultured, ironic tone he always took on when he was dressing someone down—the tone that made me want to laugh appreciatively even while I squirmed—and he’d do it while wearing his customary disapproving frown.
