The opening of my mouth mirrors ancient tombs being pried open after centuries of burial. It's dry and reeking of death. I’m so parched, you’d swear I haven’t touched a drop of liquid in a year.
“Someone kill me.”
My one eye not covered by a bedsheet pops open when a deep voice says, “Don’t pawn off the task to someone else. You did a stand-up attempt last night.”
Cormack is sitting on the edge of my bed. His dress shirt is crinkled, and his eyes are tired. The pleasing visual of his panty-wetting face weakens the thump in my skull, but it doesn’t completely erase it.
“Water?”
He stands from the bed when I feebly nod. I'm hoping we're in his home and not my loft, but the ache in my lower back makes my hope dwindle. The stiffness you get from a twelve-year-old mattress can’t be mistaken. I’ve had this bed since my thirteenth birthday. It was a lot more comfortable back then.
My wish to die grows when the old pipes of my kitchen give out a squeak when he attempts to fill a glass with water.
“You need to give it a minute to run out or you get nothing but corroded pipes and dirt.” I scoot up the bed in just enough time to witness him pouring an orangey-brown sludge down the drain.
When two minutes fail to clear the water to suitable drinking standards, he spins around to face me. “Do you sell water downstairs?” He hooks his thumb to the floor that announces my bakery’s daily schedule is in full swing. Even though I’ve smelled fresh bread wafting through my floorboards every day the past six months, not once has it grown old.
“Yeah. Just ask Renee for a bottle. You don’t have to pay for it.” I hope my hangover is making me mistake the embarrassment in my voice. I'm embarrassed, I just don’t want Cormack to know I am.
He smiles gently, revealing he heard my shame. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
I wait for him to take the first four steps of my creaky stairwell before darting into my bathroom. My swishing stomach is inappreciative of my speed, but I continue on, more determined than ever. Cormack’s arrival on my bakery step every morning the past week means I’ve set my alarm clock an hour earlier. I didn’t wake up at an ungodly hour for him to see me like this—all disheveled and messy.
After dragging my skintight dress over my head, I replace it with a loose-fitted shirt and a pair of shorts. With the pipes in the bathroom not as outdated as the kitchen, I wet my toothbrush and set to work on eradicating the dead animal smell from my mouth. I scrub the pegs of my teeth as my thumping head works through the facts.
Dust bunnies—that’s what my memories of last night are like.
By the time I hear Cormack reclimbing the stairs, I’ve wrangled my hair into a side braid, pinched color back into my cheeks, and taken a seat at my dinette.
His brisk pace slows when he spots me sitting at the table, casually flicking through an outdated gossip magazine. “If you’re ever after a job, come work for my firm. I’m always seeking quick movers.” He sets a bottle of water in front of me, the pride in his words more appetizing than the sparkly clear beverage.
After running his hand down my hair, he presses his lips to my temple. “How are you feeling?” The prolonged linger of his lips exposes he's striving to answer his own question. “You’re not as warm as you were last night, but still carrying a fever.”
I tuck my feet under my bottom, confused. “I had a fever?”
Sweat stops beading on my nape when he removes his lips from my forehead. “Do you not recall what happened?”
I wait for him to take the seat next to me. Instead of sitting as you’d expect a twenty-eight-year-old businessman to sit, he straddles the wooden chair backwards. His laidback approach makes me smile. With a chauffeur, housekeeper, and a personal assistant, you’d be quick to suspect Cormack is a snob. You’d be wrong. He lives well above my means, but his heart craves the same thing every other red-blooded American does: he wants to enjoy his life with those he cares about the most.
This is an early call considering we’ve only known each other a few weeks, but I’m reasonably sure I’m included in the list of people he cares for. Even if I’m not, he will always have a place on my list. He earned his position when he arrived on my doorstep at 4 AM to help me bake. My bakery is an extension of my family. Just knowing he cares for it as much as me fills me with gooey mushiness.
“Harlow?”
“Huh?” I reply, unsure if the inane beat of my heart made me miss an entire sentence.
Cormack’s smile at my blasé response makes my heart situation ten times worse. “Last night? Do you remember what happened?”
I shake my head. “I’m assuming I got a little tipsy?”
Grinning, Cormack nods. “Then. . .?”
“Then. . . you brought me back here and we. . . got freaky?” My last two words are delivered as eccentrically as they sound.
Cormack usually takes my witty personality in stride. This time, he doesn’t. “Nice to know what you really think of me.” His tone alarms me more than the nasty sneer on his face.
“I was joking. I’ve always thought it’s a little rapey to have sex with someone while they’re intoxicated, but you can’t blame a girl for being hopeful.”
Cormack arches a blond brow as his face reddens with anger. “Hopeful that I took advantage of you?”
“No. . .” The remainder of my reply lodges in my throat when he stands from his chair and moves into my living room/bedroom.
While throwing his cell phone into his pocket, he asks, “Is that why you got drunk? To test me?”
The viciousness of his words slice through me like knives, but they don’t stop me from saying, “No. Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I need to test you?”
He huffs but remains quiet. After gathering his shoes and jacket, he lifts his eyes to mine. The hurt clouding them nicks my heart with a thousand razor blades. “You ate salmon roe. It made you sick. I took care of you. I didn’t touch you like that.”
“Okay.” I want to say more, but since I can’t guarantee I can speak without sobbing, I keep my mouth shut. I only cry happy tears, not sad ones.
“Your cell is on the bedside table. It was dead, so I charged it for you. Renee said she has everything handled downstairs, so don’t go down until you’re ready.”
My heart sinks when he pushes off his feet and heads for the stairwell.
“Cormack. . .”
He stops pacing, but doesn’t turn around to face me. I want to demand an explanation for his erratic behavior. I want to tell him to stop talking in riddles and try straight up honesty, but since I'm more confused than I am hungover, I settle for a weaker, more pathetic reply, “Thank you for taking care of me.”
After briefly dipping his chin, he gallops down the stairs. The brutal rattle of the back door of my bakery shudders my core not even two seconds later. It chips my heart even more than the desolate look his eyes had in the seconds leading to his brisk departure.
I think I just broke us before we even became an official us.