Eight
Emmett was lying on the hard floor, the thin carpeting doing his back no favors. And the sleeping bag wasn’t helping after a long day of driving, getting engaged and the bonus of being pummeled by memories.
Stef had gone downstairs well over an hour ago, and now his little social butterfly was taking her sweet time delighting the guests of Lawson B and B. He could imagine her broad, infectious smile. The way she stood when she told a joke and almost always flubbed the ending.
He closed his eyes and shook his head, wishing she’d come back if for no other reason than to distract him. He could go downstairs, he supposed, but after he’d found out the real reason for her being in Harlington, something inside him had cracked open and out seeped decades of toxic waste.
He’d been in one of those families she was planning on serving. After his mother and baby brother had passed away, his father quit working. They’d had financial help from the state, and his old man had qualified for disability thanks to an unsuccessful attempt at suicide.
That’d been a shitty Christmas.
Emmett had worked hard to escape his past, to make up for the assistance his father sponged off the system. He’d done well for himself, and always worked harder than expected to make sure he earned every cent of his paycheck. As his check was signed by a Ferguson, it was no surprise that Stef’s sharing that she was in town to help the less fortunate had struck a raw chord.
As if he needed a reminder that she was better than him in every way.
Uglier thoughts like that one had traipsed around his mind in a demented square dance since he’d climbed out of the shower. Thoughts like, if Chase knew who he really was, would they even be friends? Emmett had shared everything with his best bud save what income bracket he’d hailed from. He’d also wondered if Stefanie ever would have approached him about marrying her if she knew he’d once qualified to be one of the guests at her dinner.
The entire scenario sickened him. He couldn’t escape the loss that came back like the Ghost of Christmas Past. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was a sheep in wolf’s clothing—and underneath the tough exterior was a tender boy with a broken heart.
“Fucking Christmas.” He pushed himself to sitting, ran a hand over his short hair and sighed. Sleep was so far away he’d need a passport to get there.
Dressed in only boxer briefs and a sleeveless tank, he braced himself against the chill in the room when he climbed to his feet. The Victorian was an old house and drafty as hell.
He knelt to check the fridge beneath the television, praying for a few of those miniature overpriced bottles of booze to take the edge off. He never made a habit of drinking away a mood, but in this case, it would serve a dual purpose. He’d warm up, too.
He inspected the fridge’s contents—OJ, milk and water. Not a bottle of liquor to be found.
The sound of a key card sliding through the pad drew his attention to the door. Stefanie stepped into the room, her smile slightly wonky but no less charming. She carried two steaming mugs.
“I was hoping you’d be awake.” She smiled brightly, and even in the meager light leaking in from the streetlamp through the lace curtains he could see the pink tinge of her cheeks. “I had Margaret heat up a few more of these—and add some bourbon.” She bared her teeth in a bright grin. “I’ve already had one with bourbon.”
In spite of all that had haunted him this evening, he felt better already. She’d walked into the room and her presence had slain the demons.
“I’ll take it.” He flicked on a nearby lamp. “Nothing but nonalcoholic beverages in the room.”
“Well then. You’re welcome.” She handed over the cider topped with whipped cream. He wasn’t sure this concoction would make a difference in his mood, but it was worth a shot.
She sipped and then licked the whipped cream off her upper lip. At the same time, they moved to sit on the end of the bed.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Go ahead.” He gestured, remaining standing.
She sat, patting the bedding next to her. He regarded the quilt for a beat before easing down next to her.
Curling her legs beneath her, she held the mug with both hands and hummed. “I love being warm.”
“In this drafty house that might be a challenge. I didn’t see a thermostat in this room.”
Her eyes went past him to his bed on the floor. “Is it cold down there?”
He shrugged.
“You could always—”
“It’s fine.” Whatever she was about to suggest, he couldn’t let her. She wasn’t sleeping down there—or wedging herself onto the tiny sofa.
He drank his cider carefully to make sure it wasn’t too hot. It was perfect, and the sweet tang of bourbon welcome.