Page 13 of When It's Us
I blink out at the man standing on my porch. I’m either still asleep or having the most ridiculous dream ever. That, or I slipped and hit my head and now have a concussion, causing hallucinations. Because that is theonlyreason this man would be here.
In California. On my doorstep. At…noon, apparently.
I shake my head once and my brows pinch inward. “Why?”
“Hell if I know. I was as surprised as you are. Here. I got you coffee.” He holds out the other paper cup, which strikes me as oddly…sweet.
Which makes zero sense coming from him and is further evidence that I am, in fact, dreaming or hallucinating. Or maybe I’m still drunk?
I look from him to the cup and back again, tightening my arms around my middle. “What? Why?”
“It’s coffee, not poison, but if you don’t want it.” He shrugs like he doesn’t care one way or the other, pulling the cup back.
My mind seems to come back online. It’s coffee. We don’t refuse coffee.
“No, no. I’ll… Thanks,” I say, taking it from his hand and glancing down at the cup before putting it to my lips. It’s not how I normally take my coffee, but beggars can’t be hungover choosers. “Shit, that’s good,” I mutter, and he grins.
I scowl at him. I don’t mean to, it’s just my default setting when it comes to the cocky asshole. Although he’s acting rather un-asshole-ish right now. Maybe he’s sick.
“So are you going to invite me in, or did I drive an hour and a half out of my way to stand on your porch?”
I make an impatient sound in the back of my throat and look around.
He raises his eyebrows. “You’re not fucking with me? You really didn’t ask her to call me?”
“No.” I shake my head a little too hard, making my stomach roll. I swallow hard, trying to keep the nausea at bay. “I mean, I don’t think so?” I say with a sigh.
Hutch lets out a chuckle, all rich and gravelly, and I hate that the sound gives me goosebumps. He glances down at his feet before bringing those incredible, deep blue eyes back up to mine.
How can one man be so attractive? Because Hutch is. Disgustingly so. I kind of hate it. Well, my brain does. The rest of me is very aware of how much Ido nothate it.
“You might want to check your phone, California.” Hutch nods behind me, another sly smile tipping up his lips when I scowlat his nickname for me. His smile makes those damn dimples pucker.
I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously but turn and walk away in search of my phone, leaving the door open. Disappearing around the corner into the living room, I hear Hutch step inside and shut the door behind him.
It takes a minute for me to find my phone in all the blankets, but when I wake it up, I see missed calls from Peter, several texts from Wren, and more from…
I chuckle a bit that even in my drunken state, I managed to save his contact as‘Bigfoot’.
And there it is in all its glory. Multiple texts back and forth between me and my best friend about road trips and roadhead at the height of drunken stupidity.
Fucking beer.
Hutch steps into the living room and his eyes land on the coffee table littered with beer bottles before dancing over to the makeshift bed of pillows and blankets on the couch. It’s obvious why I’m looking a wreck this morning. His eyes land back on mine.
“Someone had fun last night,” he comments with a chuckle.
Smug bastard.
As I click through more messages, I don’t even try to stifle the groan that comes out.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter under my breath.
Hutch wanders over to the fireplace, putting him behind me. “See?”
I blow out a breath and drop onto the couch, ignoring him. Because staring back at me is the stupidest text I’ve ever sent in my life, timestamped at one-thirty a.m.
Ginger: We’re you serious about that road trip?
