Page 25 of Duty and Desire
“Oh, yeah,” she murmurs, and I bite back a grin.
“You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“That’s doubtful. Champagne hangovers are the worst.” She tucks the blanket up around her neck, and I shake my head, then go to the closet to grab a thicker one before spreading it over her. “Thank you.”
“We’re gonna have a talk tomorrow.”
“About what?” She peeks one eye open to look at me.
“About you not unpacking.” I lean over and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, watching up close as her nose scrunches. “Get some sleep.” I stand back, then go to the door and cut the light before leaving the room.
It takes me a few minutes to close everything down and get the house locked up, and even longer to fall asleep after I get into bed.
The next morning, standing in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in hand, I look toward Bridgett’s bedroom door. When it opens, I smile as she mumbles, “Morning,” before ducking her head and rushing to the bathroom across the room with her arms full.
A couple of seconds later, I hear the shower turn on, so I wait a few minutes before tossing one of the breakfast sandwiches she eats—unless I cook—into the microwave. I then pour her a cup of coffee, adding the vanilla creamer she always uses. Knowing she’s probably hungover, I grab a bottle of Tylenol from thecupboard and place it next to a glass of water on the island, along with her sandwich and coffee before grabbing a set of keys off the hook near the back door and heading outside.
When I get down the steps off the deck, I go to where my four-wheeler is parked under a slanted roof attached to the house and hook up the trailer, then straddle the seat and start the engine. After turning around in the yard, I drive down the overgrown path that leads to the backside of the property and hope like fuck the single-wide trailer I lived in for two years before building my house wasn’t damaged this winter.
When it comes into view, I scan the roof for any branches that might have fallen off the surrounding trees but find none. I park and get off, then head inside. The interior is still in good shape, and I know that even if I have no desire to be a landlord, I could easily rent the space out for a thousand or more dollars a month.
Hell, Bridgett could even move in here and be comfortable, but I don’t like the idea of her being back here on her own.
Or, if I’m honest, I just don’t like the idea of her being so far away from me.
Bypassing the kitchen, I head to the back bedroom and stop in the doorway. When my house was completed four years ago, I bought all new furniture first because I barely fit the queen bed I had been sleeping on for a couple of years. But also because most of the things I owned were hand-me-downs, and it was time to replace them all. I planned on donating the old stuff but decided to wrap everything in plastic and leave it in the trailer in case someone else needed it at some point. I’m glad I did.
When I’m done getting the wooden bedframe broken down, and it and the mattress and box spring out of the room and onto the trailer, I head back to the house. I park the ATV at the bottom of the steps, then take the headboard inside, noticing aslip of paper on the counter and the dishwasher running. Picking up the note, I scan the frilly writing.
Thank you for breakfast. Ran out to do some errands. Be back soon.xx
Seeing the Xs at the bottom scribbled over, I shake my head and bite back a smile. I lean the headboard I’m still holding against one of the walls, then bring everything else inside and get to work.
“Umm…what is going on?” Bridgett asks. I pause just below the landing of the stairs, the couch balancing on its arm since the only way to get it up to the second floor alone is to push it end-over-end.
“I’m taking the couch upstairs.”
“Is this your way of telling me you’re kicking me out?”
“No. This is my way of telling you that you’re not sleeping on a couch while under this roof.” I drop my gaze to the bags she’s holding. “You went to the grocery store?”
“I got stuff to make blueberry scones and lasagna for dinner.”
“Babe, if you keep feeding me cookies and shit, I’m gonna have a heart attack running after a perp.”
“Don’t say that!” She gasps.
“It’s the truth.”
“You don’t have to eat what I cook.”
“I don’t, but I’m also not going to pass up your cooking.” I tip the couch up the stairs.
“Well, then—” She lifts her chin ever so slightly while crossing her arms over her ample chest. “I guess it’s good you’re a fancy detective now, and it’s someone else’s job to run after the bad guys.”
“I guess it is.” I squat, then stand, hefting the couch up and over one more time.
“Do you want me to help?”
