Page 76 of Chasing the Sun
I let out a shaky exhale, trying desperately to breathe as my stomach tightened again. Cal ... why did I vaguely remember being carried in his arms? Or the way his body, hard and warm and protective, felt wrapped around me?
I cracked one eye open and saw the small glass of water and neatly arranged pills on my bedside table—items drunk Elodiedefinitelyhadn’t had the wherewithal to set out.
I exhaled, rolling to my back. “Shit.”
I patted my body, fingers skimming down my torso like a forensic investigator trying to piece together the evidence of my own crime.
“Still dressed. No mysterious bruises. No wedding ring. This is a good start.”
I continued to pat down my body, gently exploring, and let out a sigh of relief when I realized I was still fully clothed in last night’s outfit.
At least we hadn’t had sex.
But I felt it, deep in my bones, that Cal wasn’t the type of man who would take advantage of a woman in my precarious situation. I squeezed my eyes closed again, pressing my fingertips into my eye sockets.
Thank goodness it was Cal who wrangled me and brought me home.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Now I would have to addGentle Caretakinginto the column of things I didn’t hate about Callum Blackwood. It was concerning how rapidly that column was outpacing the other column affectionately titledReasons Callum Blackwood Is a Dick. It was also worth noting that his dick—and the masterful use of it—did not fall neatly into that column either.
I grabbed the Tylenol on the bedside table and carefully sipped just enough water to get the pills down. The morning sun was too bright, a clear indication that I’d likely overslept. I sat up and the room spun. I blinked away the dizziness in search of something—anything—to put in my stomach so I might claw my way through this miserable day.
His scent clung to the air like a ghost. Besides the Tylenol and glass of water, there was no other evidence of him.
Maybe I had dreamed it up—a whimsical, horny fantasy that included a tender side to Cal. I pushed the sweaty curls away from my face, laughing at the thought as I padded toward the kitchen.
As I looked up, I stopped.
In the center of the table was a white paper bag, and in front of it, a scrap of paper with blocky masculine handwriting scrawled on it.
Way to tie one on, Darling. Sugar and carbs ought to help. — Cal
I could almost hear the teasing rumble of his voice, that gravelly amusement edged with something softer. I unrolled the top of the paper bag and found several homemade-looking pastries inside. My stomach grumbled like a petulant child stomping its feet and demanding to be fed immediately. I reached in and pulled out a pastry from the top. Itwas round with a flaky, buttery crust. The center was filled with what looked like raspberry jam, and slivered almonds were sprinkled on the top.
Despite knowing I should probably take it easy, I took a generous bite, moaning at how the buttery crust melted inside my mouth. The crust crumbled at the edges but dissolved on my tongue, rich with butter and just a whisper of vanilla. The raspberry jam was thick, sticky sweet, with a tang that made my taste buds sing.
I chewed slowly, savoring, and let my eyes flutter shut in ecstasy.
No man had ever brought me pastries before.
“So freaking good,” I mumbled out loud around the bite of pastry.
For a fleeting moment it didn’t matter that Cal had seen me acting like a reckless woman, because apparently it meant him taking care of me in the form of protective embraces and next-day pastries.
You couldn’t convince me that a hot shower and that raspberry tart couldn’t cure 90 percent of my problems. By the time I limped through that hot shower and another three pastries—apricot, lemon, and cheese Danish that time—I was feeling a thousand times better.
Half the day had already been spent trying to pull up any other memories of the night before, to no avail.
Hot coffee in hand, I stepped out onto the front porch of my cottage and looked in the direction of the Drifted Spirit. A pair of old men were sitting on the front porch, deep in a game of chess. Another couple chatted while enjoying the porch swing on the far side of the inn. Cal’s cat was basking in the sun, curled into a content little ball. Walking down the steps of the porch were two elderly women with vaguely familiar faces.
Betty?
No, Sheila and Rose, I think—though my recollection was unquestionably fuzzy.
“Yoo-hoo!” one called out, waving her arm above her head. “You still owe me a shot, honey!” she called, her laughter full bellied and shameless.
I tentatively lifted my free hand in greeting when the woman reached down, grabbed the hem of her shirt, and flashed me, her hot-pink bra visible for a millisecond. I choked on my coffee as the woman and her friend dissolved into a fit of laughter as I stared in shock. A laugh burst from my chest as a flood of patchwork memories came back to me.
