He slept on his back, one tattooed arm under his head, the other around me. I hadn’t pegged him for a cuddler. No one in their right mind would. But the hold he had on me said differently. His chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths. I studied his stomach muscles with fascination. Mine were sore from the unexpected ab workout orgasms delivered. His looked like they could withstand anything, tapering down to a taut V that disappeared beneath the sheet.
He looked so peaceful that even the perpetual line of annoyance between his eyebrows had smoothed.
I couldn’t believe Knox Morgan was naked in my bed.
Oh, God.
Knox Morgan was naked.
In my bed.
And the sneaky son of a bitch had given me two of the most intense orgasms known to humankind. How in the hell was I supposed to look him in the eye now and not send my vagina into involuntary spasms?
Ah, there it was. My old friend, abject panic.
What was I doing in bed with a man I knew better than to sleep with mere weeks after running away from my own wedding?
I needed to get out of this bed because if Knox woke up and gave me a sleepy-eyed stare, I’d throw caution to the wind and hop right back on that cock of his without another thought.
It took a few tries, but I managed to extricate myself from his surprisingly snuggly grip. Not wanting to wake him by rummaging through drawers, I grabbed the nightgown I’d set out for tonight and wiggled into it before tiptoeing out of the room.
“One-time thing,” I chanted to myself as I made my way down the stairs.
It happened. It was over. Time to move on.
I tripped over a discarded boot on my way into the kitchen. “Ow! Damn it,” I hissed.
Waylon lifted his head from the couch, let out a yawn, and stretched luxuriously.
“Hi,” I said, feeling self-conscious that the dog might be judging me for sleeping with his human. But if the basset hound was feeling judgmental, it didn’t last because he rolled over and promptly went back to sleep.
I moved Knox’s boots away from the foot of the stairs.
We’d left a trail of clothing on the first floor, something else I’d never done.
I’d pick it all up and fold it just as soon as I had a hit of coffee.
The late night, the worry over Nash, and Waylay’s first day, not to mention the mind-altering orgasms, had all rendered me nearly comatose.
I quickly started a pot of coffee, then rested my forehead on the counter while I waited for it to brew.
I thought about Waylay, trudging onto the big yellow school bus in her purple dress and pink sneakers. Her new backpack full of supplies and snacks.
She hadn’t been excited for her first day of sixth grade. I could only imagine how awful last year, her first in Knockemout, had been. Hopefully, between Nina, Chloe, and a new teacher, Waylay would get the second chance she so deserved. And if that didn’t do the trick, I would find another solution. Waylay was a smart, funny, sweet kid, and I wouldn’t let the world ignore that.
The coffee maker beeped its siren song of a finished pot. My fingers had just closed around the handle of the coffee carafe when there was a peppy knock at the front door.
Waylon’s head popped back up from the couch.
Hastily, I poured a mug and took a scalding swallow before throwing open the door.
I choked on the mouthful of caffeine when I found my parents standing on the porch.
“There’s our girl!” My mother, looking tan and happy, opened her arms.
At 61, Amanda Witt still dressed to accentuate the curves that had caught my father’s eye in college. She took pride in coloring her hair the same auburn it had been on their wedding day, though now she wore it in a daring pixie cut. She golfed, worked part-time as a school counselor, and breathed life into every room she entered.
“Mom?” I croaked, automatically leaning in for a hug.
“Lou, isn’t this the cutest little cottage you’ve ever seen?” she said.
My father grunted. He had his hands stuffed into the pockets of his shorts and was nudging the porch railing with the toe of his sneakers. “Seems solid,” he said.
Mom was impressed by pretty things. Dad preferred to appreciate sturdiness.
“How you doing, kiddo?” he asked.
I transferred my hug to him and laughed as my toes left the ground. While Mom was a few inches shorter than Tina and me, Dad was over six feet tall. A bear of a man who always made me feel like everything was going to be okay.
“What are you two doing here?” I asked as he carefully put me down.
“Sweetheart, you can’t tell us we have a granddaughter and not expect us to drive straight here. Did we get you out of bed? That’s a lovely nightgown,” Mom noted.
Bed.
Nightgown.
Sex.
Knox.
Oh, God.
“Uhhh…”
“I told you we should have cut that cruise short, Lou,” Mom said, slapping Dad in the shoulder. “She’s obviously depressed. She’s still in her pajamas.”
“She’s not depressed, Mandy,” Dad insisted, rapping his knuckles on the door frame as he stepped inside. “What is this? Oak?”
“I don’t know, Dad. Mom, I’m not depressed,” I said, trying to figure out a way to get them out of the house before my naked guest woke up. “I just…uh…worked late last night, and there was a family emergency—”
Mom gasped. “Is something wrong with Waylay?”
“No. Mom. Sorry. Not our family. The family who owns this place and the bar I work at.”
“I can’t wait to see it. What’s it called again? Hanky Pank?”
“Honky Tonk,” I corrected her, spying my dress on the floor. “Did you see the living room?” It came out as an almost shout, and my parents exchanged a glance before pretending to be enthralled with the space I was waving at.
“Just look at that fireplace, Lou.”
“Yes, look at the fireplace,” I all but screeched.
Dad grunted.
As my parents admired the fireplace, I hooked the dress with my toes and swept it under the kitchen table.
“And you got a dog! My, you have been busy since the wedding.”
Waylon lifted his head, a jowl still stuck to the pillow. His tail thumped on the cushion, and my mom dissolved into a puddle of affection. “Who’s a handsome boy? You are, sir. Yes, you are!”
“See, Mandy, she’s not depressed. She’s just busy,” Dad insisted.
“Isn’t the view of the woods great?” I said, the words sounding strangled as I pointed frantically at the windows.
When they turned to admire the woods through the glass, I grabbed Knox’s jeans off the floor and threw them into the cabinet under the sink.
“Beeper, come meet your niece or nephew doggy!” My mother was using her “straight-A report card on the refrigerator” voice, which was definitely loud enough to wake the man upstairs in my bed.
“You guys brought Beeper?”
Beeper was my parents’ latest rescue dog. She was a mix of breeds—I got them the DNA test for Christmas the previous year—that had been scrambled together and came out looking like a large, brown Brillo pad with feet. The Brillo pad appeared in the doorway and trotted inside.
Waylon sat up and gave an appreciative “woof.”
“This is Waylon. He’s not mine. He belongs to my…um. Neighbor? Hey, do you guys want to get out of here and go for breakfast or lunch or just leave for any reason at all?”
Waylon hopped off the couch and booped noses with Beeper. Beeper let out a high-pitched yap, and the two of them began to zoom around the minuscule first floor.
“Daisy, baby, what the fuck are you doing down there?”
I watched in horror as bare feet attached to naked, muscular legs appeared on the stairs. Mom and I froze to the spot as boxer briefs—thank God for penis-covering miracles—came into view.
Dad, moving quickly for a big guy, put himself between us and the approaching boxer briefs.
“State your business,” Dad shouted at Knox’s bare torso.
“Wow, wow, wow,” Mom whispered.
She wasn’t wrong. The man was freaking spectacular.