Page 83 of Beyond the Cottage

Foggy memories solidified, becoming sharper the more she tried to push them away. She’d told him about getting fired. He’d brought her to the bathroom. Like a sloppy idiot, she’d fallen on her ass.

And god. He had helped her piss.

That mortifying image became an afterthought when she remembered what happened before it. He’d pulled her out of the shower and held her as she cried.

She fucking cried. In hislap.

Oh, but there’s more! When he tried to put you to bed, you humped him like a dog in heat and begged him to fuck you. Then you made him sleep by you when he tried to leave.

BRAVO, you stupid cow!

Embarrassment and self-loathing churned with the leftover booze in her stomach. She lurched off the bed and stumbled, barely reaching the wastebasket in time. Brandy and acid spewed from her lips in pure liquid, since she hadn’t eaten the night before.

Cursing, he crouched beside her and gathered her hair.

“Don’t touch me,” she said, hiding her face.

“I don’t care about a little vomit. Let me help you.”

His gentle tone in the face of her ugliness dumped kerosene on her humiliation. So did the way she wanted to lean against his chest and let him stroke her hair, like he used to when she got sick.

What washappeningto her?

She reared back, yanking her hair from his hands. “I said don’t touch me! Leave me the fuckalone, for once.”

He blinked twice. The look on his face told her she may as well have slapped him. Then he stood, expression flat.

Gretta covered her mouth, wishing she could stuff the words back in.

“Anse,” she said to his back.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Wincing, Gretta slunk into bed and pulled the covers over her head. She clutched at her resentment for what he’d done to her, telling herself he deserved whatever she gave him. But there wasn’t much anger left to hold on to.

And this time, hedidn’tdeserve her venom. He hadn’t made her get so plastered, the stoic bartender had cut her off. It wasn’t his fault she’d whipped off her pants and thrown herself at him. A classy act he’d resisted, by the way.

Gretta had earned her humiliation all on her own. And there was no more denying she had two problems.

Drinking was the first. She’d always thought she could hold her liquor, but last night proved her control was slipping. She’d brushed Brand off when he brought it up, but as always, he’d been right. She needed to at leasttrycutting back.

Problem two: she couldn’t seem to keep her hands off Ansel. She didn’t even have problem one as an excuse at Isobel’s, since the wine had worn off well before she’d mauled him. And last night, she’d been fucked up but also more honest.

She’dwantedto touch him. Both times. Hell, if he came back that moment, she’d probably drag him into bed and crawl into his lap because apparently she couldn’t stay out of it.

It was getting harder to plausibly convince herself she still hated him. And that made the throbbing in her temples worse.

She rolled out of bed. A shower would clear her head. Then she’d…apologize? She wasn’t great at that, and the idea made her want to hunch over the wastebasket again. But she’d been an asshole. Pretending otherwise would make her pigheaded.

Grettahatedit when Philip was right.

Ansel sat on the chaise with his bags at his feet, staring at the wall as the morning replayed in his head. He relived her horror at waking with him, her fear he’d taken advantage of her. Rather than improving, her opinion of him had sunk to the lowest possible depths.

Did any of it surprise you, idiot? Did you actually believe her drunken affection would last?

He hadn’t, not really. And he knew sleeping beside her had been stupid. But last night, he’d been intoxicated on her confessions, deluding himself some part of her had meant them. He’d let hope cloud his already shitty judgment.

No more. She’d told him to leave her the fuck alone, and he would. Their shared objective didn’t make them friends, and they’dcertainlynever be lovers.

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