“You’re sure?”
“As rain.”
“I don’t think that’s a saying.”
She smiled. “It should be. Will you try again?”
A battle waged in his bright blue eyes, the silence stretching long enough for embarrassment to nip through her drunken haze, until he finally rasped, “Stay still.”
Slowly closing the distance, his lips brushed hers, warm and soft. Her lashes lowered, and she pressed into the kiss, remembering how sweet the act could be.
The weight of his large hand curled around her hip. Warmth unraveled low in her belly as she breathed against his lips and softly licked at his tongue. She missed this. It had been so long.
The crinkle of his facial hair registered against her frozen cheeks. Facial hair? She jerked back and opened her eyes. Crushing guilt shoved her shoulders to the ground. Unfamiliar blue irises watched her. What was she doing? And on this day of all days!
She sat up, disgusted with herself and woozy from moving too fast. She fumbled with the cap of the bottle, needing to wash out her mouth. Oh, God, how could she?
“Hey…” He touched her back, and she tensed, angling away from the contact as she took a long swig of Jameson. “Maggie, you might want to slow down.”
She didn’t need someone telling her how to—
The trees swirled and swooped as her belly flipped. She dropped the bottle onto the grass and rolled to her hands and knees, scrambling away as fast as she could crawl. She only made it a few feet before tripping over her arms and vomiting.
“Shit.” He crawled next to her and gathered her hair behind her shoulder. “Get it out.”
“You should go,” she groaned and then threw up her spleen. She should have eaten more than two bites at the bar and a banana today. She had nothing inside of her but whiskey, and her stomach wanted to throw everything out.
“I’m not leaving you like this.”
She shivered as another dry heave ripped through her. Sweat beaded her body from straining. No more. No more. Her mind clumsily begged her stomach to settle, but she felt the pull of another purge.
She wretched again, dry heaving and spitting into the lawn. Where was her blanket? If she got puke on it, she’d have to wash it and then it wouldn’t smell like Nash anymore.
Oh, God, Nash. What time was it?
It was almost time. What if he was watching?
Her stomach lurched and her face crumpled as she started to cry. “I’m so sorry…” She was a horrible wife.
“You don’t have to apologize. We’ve all been there.”
Why was her neighbor still there? Wiping her mouth on the back of her arm, she staggered to her feet. Thank God, the blanket was nowhere near the puke. She gathered it to her chest and took a jerky step away from him. What had she been thinking?
“I have to go.”
“Let me walk you in and get you situated. You need to drink some water and probably eat a piece of bread or something to sop up the—”
“No.” This had to end here. “I’ll be fine.”
He stood. “Maggie, I’m sorry about the kiss. I thought you wanted me to—”
“I have to go.” She rushed inside, not wanting an account of her despicable behavior. Locking the door, she slid her back down the wall, pressing her face into the blanket as she let her tears freely fall.
Wiping her nose on her sleeve, she cried promises to herself. To Nash. To the emptiness that was her life.
“It didn’t count. None of that was real. Nothing happened. Nothing happened. It didn’t count. I’m sorry.”
Chapter 9
Maggie awoke the following morning on the kitchen floor. “Oh, God.” She winced as she tried to move but everything hurt.
Everything always hurt on March eighteenth. The weight of the day seemed lodged right on top of her chest. She already doubted her strength to survive the next twenty-four hours. Maybe she should just start drinking now, nip this hangover in the bud with a little hair of the dog and just get mind-numbingly wasted. That was a plan.
She pushed herself off the floor and guzzled a glass of water. Only one hour until work and she needed to get moving.
She rushed through her morning routine, making coffee and taking a quick shower. After swallowing down two aspirin, she filled her thermos and bundled up for the ride in. When she turned the knob the door didn’t budge. Her brow creased with confusion, and she winced, her whiskey-soaked brain still sore from the night before.
She never locked the back door. Her sister lectured her about leaving the house open constantly. Her stare moved to the backyard. A tickle of unease crept up her spine.
She unlocked the door and walked down the back porch steps, looking for some clue to why she felt so … off. Puddles soaked the grass, but the driveway was bone dry. Did it rain over half the yard?