Page 6 of Stunner (Whiskey Dolls 3)

Letting out a slow exhale, I reached up to massage my temples to counteract the power drill whirring at full speed inside my brainpan. “Most of it... I think. But everything after shot three, or maybe it was shot four, is a bit hazy.” I peeled my eyelids open, taking him in fully for the first time. He was the picture of casualness, in a plain white cotton tee and gray sweats. His shoulder was propped against the doorjamb, his bare feet crossed at the ankles. The tattoos that started at his wrists—the ones you’d never expect to see on your friendly neighborhood veterinarian—and covered his arms all the way up beneath hisshirt sleeves were on full display, and like usual, the sight of them made my breath hitch and my blood race fast enough to heat my veins beneath my skin.

Jackson wouldn’t have been caught dead with a tattoo. He had been clean-cut and polished, even when he wasn’t at work. His idea of casual attire was to trade his suit and tie for a polo and chinos. The man even wore house shoes instead of walking around barefoot. I caught him curling his lip up more than once when I’d come home from working a shift at Whiskey Dolls and change into a pair or sweats, throwing my hair up in a messy bun. When what he’d tried to play off as casual teasing hadn’t guilted me into throwing out some of my more threadbare lounge clothes, he’d resorted to buying me new ones as replacements, making passive-aggressive comments and feigning hurt when I stuck with the tried and true instead of the expensive and uncomfortable athleisure-wear he’d given me as a “gift”.

Jackson kept his sandy hair neatly trimmed and perfectly coiffed, and his jaw free of stubble, while Owen’s dark hair was usually untidy from dragging his fingers through it, and he sported a near-constant five-o’clock shadow, like he couldn’t be bothered to shave more than every other day, if that. The two men were night and day in pretty much every single way you could imagine.

“The details of how I ended up here”—I gave the room a cursory glance, noticing the décor was more rustic, leaning more toward comfortable than showy, like the bedroom I’d shared with Jackson— “whereverhereis, are a little hazy.”

“Well, herewould be my place.”

That certainly piqued my curiosity, and before I could stop myself, I gave the space another perusal, taking more of it in the second time around. I knew Owen lived in an apartment above his veterinary clinic, but I’d never been inside. From whatJackson had told me, the place was barely livable, a crackerjack box from what he’d described. Granted, I could only see one single room from where I lay, but as I looked around, I didn’t see any of the negative things he had said about the place. To hear Jackson tell it, Owen had been living two steps up from a hovel, this bedroom wasnotthat. In fact, it was downright comfy.

Sure, it was only about half the size of my old room that I’d shared with my now-ex, but I’d always thought the four-thousand-square-foot two-story was too damn big anyway. And thanks to the interior designer Jackson’s mother had hired, it had lacked all warmth and was a personality-less showplace, while Owen’s bedroom alone was full of quaint, old-fashioned charm. The walls were paneled in a warm honey-toned wood, giving it a cabin vibe that matched perfectly with the soft flannel sheets on the bed and the distressed brown leather chair in the corner. The bed and dresser were made of solid wood and masculine in design, the latter of which had loose change and crumpled receipts scattered along the top.

It could have used some tidying, that was certain. The chair and floor were littered with the deep hunter green scrubs Owen wore to work every day, several pairs of tennis shoes, and dirty socks that had been turned inside out as he stripped them off. However, given his bachelor status, it could have been alotworse. It wasn’t so much dirty as messy. The only reason Jackson hadn’t lived in a pigsty was because he paid a woman to come and clean up after him once a week, and when she wasn’t there I was, constantly picking up the messes he couldn’t be bothered with after making them. Even with the clutter, Owen’s place felt cozy and comfortable, something I’d never felt in the house I was expected to share with my husband.

“Your place,” I murmured, thinking this was the kind of space you curled up in on a stormy day with a good, thick book.

“I can give you the how of it all over breakfast and coffee.”

He had me at coffee. That one word held far too much appeal to be ignored, even in my current state, which felt about two steps from death’s door. I threw the covers back and climbed out of bed. The cool blast of the air conditioner caused goosebumps to break out across my legs. My verybarelegs.

“Um, I take it the shirt’s yours too?” I asked as I plucked at the hem of the cotton tee I was wearing, the material super soft from a thousand washes, the once-black now a faded gray. It was baggy and fell to just above mid-thigh, covering my most intimate parts, but other than my panties, it wasallI was wearing.

I wasn’t shy about showing a bit of skin, just the opposite, in fact. My job as a Whiskey Doll, a performer at the most renowned burlesque club in the state of Virginia, required performing in tiny little costumes night after night. It was second nature to me. It wasn’t the fact that he could see my legs just then that gave me pause, but the fact that I couldn’t remember changing myself.

I lifted my gaze to his, my eyebrows inching closer to my hairline. “And I take it I didn’t change myself last night?”

“I was going to leave you in your underwear. But then I saw them and, well, they didn’t exactly look comfortable.” His expression gave nothing away, however I flushed beet red at the knowledge he’d seen the plunging, frilly corset and garters I’d worn beneath my gown as a surprise to Jackson for the end of the night. “And I didn’t think that destroyed dress would feel any better.”

“Destroy—” I cut myself off, squeezing my eyes closed. “So I didn’t dream that?”

There was no mistaking the humor in his voice as he answered. “Afraid not.”

“Is it as bad as I’m picturing right now?”

There was a brief pause. “Hate to break it to you, but I don’t think there’s a seamstress in the world good enough to undo the damage you did with those scissors.”

With a pained groan, I covered my face with my hands. At his words, I recalled hacking away at my dress, desperate to remove some of the weight and allow air to flow beneath.

“I did the best I could to wash out the stains, but chili’s a bitch to get out of anything, especially silk.”

I dropped my hands, my eyes shooting to his as my heart hammered against my breastbone. “You washed my dress?”

He shrugged like it was nothing, but I caught the faint pink that tinged his cheeks beneath that appealing scruff before he turned his head to look out the bedroom window. “Wasn’t a big deal. I had to wash my pants and shoes too. Figured I’d kill a third bird with that same stone while I was at it.”

“Why did you—Ah, hell.”And the hits just kept coming. “I puked on you.”

That humor came back in force. “In your defense, you did give me warning. Only one second, but still. Come on. Coffee will make you feel a hell of a lot better.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. Between the hangover, the utter humiliation, and the ball of rage that was still sitting like a lead weight in my belly, I was pretty sure things were going to suck something fierce for the next long while. All I could hope was to sustain a closed-head injury that would keep me in a coma for the next few weeks, maybe a couple months. Nothing serious, just long enough that by the time I came out of it this whole mess would have blown over and been nothing more than a bad dream.

“Would you mind if I used the restroom first? Clean up a little bit?”

“Not at all.” He pointed to an opened door just behind me. “Bathroom’s through there. Take your time.”

I offered him a wan smile before stepping inside and closing the door between us with a quiet snick. The bathroom wasn’t exactly small, but it wasn’t huge either.Just the right size, I thought to myself, remembering back on that story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears from my childhood. Big enough for a double vanity, but not a tub and separate shower. However, that cozy cabin vibe was carried into the space with the cherry cabinets, brass fixtures, and the antique cast iron clawfoot tub along the back wall. It was the perfect tub for soaking, lying back in bubbles up to your neck, candles flickering around you, a glass of wine in hand. In fact, I could see myself doing just that.

But the little picture I’d conjured up in my head was interrupted by the sight of my mangled, tattered wedding gown hanging from the oval shower curtain rod that had been bolted into the ceiling above the tub. Reaching up, I stroked the material, feeling the dampness as visions of me using the silk as a napkin as I scarfed down the best burger I could remember ever eating danced in my aching head. Sure enough, the stains—whilenevercoming out—had been scrubbed into a faded, unsavory-looking orange color. As I stared at the splotches that reminded me of vomit, I felt something tug and tighten in my chest, something warm and unexpected, staggering. He’d really washed it. While I lay passed out in his bed... afterpukingon him, Owen had been in here, trying to salvage my gown. It didn’t make any damn sense. It wasn’t jiving with the man I’d known—or thought I had—the past year and a half.

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