Page 39 of Tattered Edges

Lifting the mug to her lips, she murmured, “When you put it that way, I guess the real trouble is I have a hard time being a sister.”

Rory shook his head and declared, “Archie Blackstone is a pain in the arse. If you’re using him as your measuring stick, then I’m afraid you’ll always be disappointed.”

Her eyes widened in surprise as she swallowed another sip. “I thought—are you two not friends?” she stammered.

“No. We’ve known each other for a long time, but we’re acquaintances at best. It would amaze me to learn if he had any real friends. He’s quite self-absorbed, that one.”

She was smiling again when she replied, “You’re not the first person to say something like that.” She paused for a moment, staring down into her drink before she asked, “Did you know his father?Myfather?”

“Sure. Not particularly well, but he came around quite a bit. He was close with my Uncle Henry before he died. Even after we lost him, Mr. Blackstone would frequent the pub.”

“I keep hearing people describe him as a kind, generous soul, and I really want to believe that’s true. My mom wasn’t—” Sawyer knit her eyebrows together as she cut herself off, then shook away the thought before she continued, “Because I never met my dad, he’s always going to be a figment of my imagination. I had one cold, distant parent and I don’t know if it’s wishful thinking or true to believe Sawyer was a warm, loving man. Evidence leads me to believe he was sentimental and traditional—but every time I interact with his children, it makes me doubt the picture I have in my head of who he was.”

Rory wasn’t sure how to respond. What he knew of Sawyer’s situation was bizarre, to say the least. To discover her father’s identity only after his death sounded discombobulating. The very fact that she was there, a world away from home and determined to make a life for herself with all he’d left to her name, it revealed a bit of what the absence of a father in her life had done to her.

Having grown up with two loving and supportive parents, Rory couldn’t even begin to imagine how he might have turned out without them. Even as an adult who’d flown the coup decades ago, the relationship he had with his parents held immense value. He couldn’t fault Sawyer for her quest for the truth.

“I might not have known him well, but I knew him enough to be sure that Archie is nothing like him. Strangers though you were, I’d wager you had more in common with the man than his son.”

Speaking through a crooked smile, she narrowed her eyes at him skeptically. “You’re not just saying that to be nice?”

A hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, he assured her, “I’m not so kind as to be made a liar. But if you don’t believe me, stop by the Tavern sometime. Have a chat with Hattie. There’s no one who knows the patrons of The King’s Steed like she does. She’ll tell you what I can’t.” Deciding then was as good a time as any to bid his guest goodnight, he stood and reached for the book he’d abandoned on the coffee table. “I’m just down the hall if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” she replied. “For the warm drink and the couch and—for everything.”

In that moment, he couldn’t help but to remember what it felt like to have her mouth pressed against his. For a split second, a part of him wanted her gratitude expressed by way of the taste of bourbon on her lips.

The thought vanished as quickly as it arrived, leaving with it a tinge of regret fueled by what he could only assume was his self-induced loneliness.

A week ago, he could have had her naked in his bed.

Now, he would leave her fully clothed on his couch.

Life had a funny way of making him pay for his choices.

“Goodnight, Sawyer,” he muttered before heading for his room, leaving her and his regret behind.

Sawyer

Hispillowsmelledlikebirch and bergamot—an intoxicating reminder of the sexy redhead, in whose home I’d slept.

Rory’s couch wasn’t quite as comfortable as mine, but I woke the next morning rested and warm.

My alarm sounded at seven-thirty, and I silenced it before I laid back and listened for any movement down the hall. I wasn’t sure how late Rory usually slept, only that he wished not to be bothered before nine in the morning.

The memory of that request came complete with the recollection I had of him shirtless, and I wondered if I’d get another glimpse of him half dressed, half awake, and with that glorious display of bedhead.

No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than I clapped my hands over my face. The act muffled my soft groan. I shouldn’t have been thinking of my neighbor half naked. My generous neighbor who invited me to sleep on his couch, made me a hot beverage to warm me up, and talked me down from the defeatist ledge I’d manage to climb on after tea with the sister who didn’t really want to be my sister.

I’d labeled Rory as broody—which was true, if only in part. But last night, he’d been more than a disgruntled helping hand. He’d been kind and receptive. He listened and was surprisingly comforting. I was worried about acquiring the label of his needy neighbor, but he made me feel nothing of the sort.

If he had stayed on the couch long enough for me to have finished my hot toddy—which was extra spicy with just the right amount of sweetness and really delicious—chances were high I would have kissed him.Again.

It was probably better he went to bed when he did. I wouldn’t have had the excuse of being drunk and jet-lagged. I was merely warm, grateful, and interested. Irrefutably interested.

Except, one blatant rejection from the man was quite enough. The thought of another, in much different circumstances, which would leave me quite vulnerable, sent a pang through my stomach.

I couldn’t even remember the last time I wanted a man who made me feel vulnerable.

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