Page 96 of That Moment
He glares over the lid but keeps drinking.
My gaze sweeps over the bay behind him. Empty beer cans litter the floor in lazy clusters. A half-eaten bag of chips sits on the workbench.
“Wow,” I say, stepping past him into the chaos. “Romantic evening?”
He groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “If you came to judge me, get in line. I already did it three times before you showed up.”
“Oh, I’m not judging,” I say, surveying the damage. “I’mevaluating. There’s a difference.”
He gestures vaguely toward the Mustang. “Slept there.”
I blink. “You slept in the car?”
He nods, and I lose it. A laugh bursts out before I can stop it. “You’re kidding.” He just scowls, which only makes me laugh harder. “God, I wish I’d seen that. What did you do, curl up across the seats like a drunken raccoon?”
His eyes narrow. “You done?”
“Not even close.” I cross my arms, fighting the smile tugging at my lips. “You’re ridiculous, Scotty. And hungover. And before you try to talk your way out of this, no, you don’t get a free pass because you had a rough night.”
“I’m not in the mood for a lecture, Adrienne.” His voice is low, rough, maybe even pleading, but I’m too wound up to let him off that easy.
“Good thing I don’t care what mood you’re in,” I snap back. “You’re getting one. Because after last night? You earned it.”
He stares at me for a long second, then sighs, finishing the rest of his coffee in two swallows. “Fine,” he mutters finally. “But let me take a piss first.”
I tilt my head, my smile sweet as poison. “By all means. Wouldn’t want you to beuncomfortablewhile I tell you what an idiot you’ve been.”
He shakes his head, muttering something and trudges toward the back hallway, bare feet slapping against the concrete.
I fold my arms, tapping my heel against the floor as I look around the mess. For a second, I imagine him here last night, all alone, drunk, stubborn as shit. My smile fades. “Yeah,” I whisper to myself, “we’re gonna fix that too.”
The bathroom door creaks open a few minutes later, and before I can even open my mouth, Scotty steps out barefoot still,jeans slung low on his hips, hair wet from where he splashed his face… and now shirtless.
Of course he is.
I try to keep my expression neutral, but my eyes have zero discipline. His chest is tanned from a summer of working outside, muscles carved tight from years of that same work, a faint trail of hair leading down past the waistband of his jeans. There’s a grease smudge on his shoulder blade, and somehow it only makes him hotter.
“Are you serious right now?” I say, aiming for scolding but coming out somewhere between breathless and horny as hell. “You couldn’t put on a shirt before my lecture?”
He grabs a clean rag from the workbench and wipes his hands, smirking faintly. “Didn’t think it’d last long.”
“What, my lecture or your shirt?”
He shrugs, a lazy roll of muscle that should be illegal before ten a.m. “Both.”
I point at him with one manicured finger. “You think this is funny?”
“I think,” he says slowly, closing the distance between us until I can feel the heat radiating off him, “you’ve got a lot to say to a man who’s half-dead from cheap beer and regret, and you’re heaving a helluva time focusing.”
“Oh, don’t you worry. I can multitask.” My voice tightens, but I hold my ground. “You were a jerk last night. And before you start in with your whole quiet-and-brooding routine, you don’t get to blow up, sulk, and then just disappear. You don’t get to make me feel like I’m crazy for caring.”
Something flickers across his face, guilt, maybe, or the beginnings of an apology, but it disappears behind that familiar guarded calm. “You done?” he asks quietly.
“Not even close,” I shoot back. “You were right, okay? About a lot of things. I’ve been scared. I’ve been—” I stop myself, jawbeginning to quiver, but I bite back the emotion. “—using work as an excuse not to deal with my own shit. But that doesn’t make what you said okay.”
He exhales slowly, eyes tracing my face like he’s cataloguing every word. Then, without a single warning, he reaches his arms overhead, stretching.
I go utterly still.
