Emery
One year ago
* * *
I’d just changed out of the bridesmaid dress and into pajamas when I heard the growl of tires on gravel at the back of my house.
The alarm clock on my bedside table read 01:16.
Who on earth …
I hurried to the window that looked down on my driveway and watched as a large figure pushed open the door of a Mercedes.
A Mercedes I recognized.
Jack?
He practically fell out of the car.
Oh my God.
Hurrying downstairs and out onto the porch, I watched as Jack stumbled on the gravel, steadying himself against the hood of the car. He snort-laughed under his breath and cursed.
He was drunk.
“Jack,” I hissed, hurrying down the porch steps.
He looked up from watching his feet and gave me a wobbly smile. “Em, how did you get here?”
Jesus Christ. “Jack, you’re at my house. You drove to my house. Drunk.” I was furious.
He moved toward me and I rushed to put my arms around him as he stumbled.
Holy hell … he was drunk.
“Yes, I nee-needed to see you.” He didn’t slur his words but drawled them out like someone who was falling asleep.
Concern overcame my shock and with great difficulty, I helped him up the porch and into the house.
“You smell so good.” He tried to bury his nose against my neck as I grunted beneath his weight. The man was huge! “You feel fucking good too.” His hand slipped down to my ass and I yelped as he squeezed it. “You have the greatest ass in the world. I’ve fantasized a million times about your ass.”
Flushing hot, I neared my sectional and pushed him to it.
He flopped heavily onto it and stared up at the ceiling. A few seconds later, he asked, “How did I get on the floor?”
“You’re on the couch,” I snipped. “I’m going to get you some water.”
“Don’t leave, Em.”
He sounded so forlorn, I felt more than a prick of sympathy. Damn him! “I’ll be right back.”
When I returned, he hadn’t moved and his eyes were still glued to my ceiling. “Jack, take this.” I sat near his head and held out the glass of water.
He didn’t take it.
“You hate me,” he said instead, sounding distraught and not at all like the self-possessed, thirty-seven-year-old man I knew. He sounded young. And lost. “You’re supposed to hate me. It’s for the best. But I hate that you hate me.”
Tears brightened my eyes. “I don’t hate you, Jack.”