Page 39 of Panty Dropper

CHAPTER 19

Billy

“Well, good mornin’, pretty la—” My hoarse greeting for Reagan was cut off mid-word as I finished rolling over on my side and saw that she wasn’t in bed with me.

It was a pity, because I was sporting some serious morning wood and it’d be a shame for it to go to waste.

Maybe she was in the bathroom. I pushed up and let my legs fall off the bed, grabbed the jeans I’d discarded the night before, and called out to her. “Reagan? Darlin’, you in there?”

No answer. I crossed the room to the bathroom door and knocked. When I didn’t hear anything I pushed it open, my eyes taking in the whole white-tiled room in one sweep. Empty.

I pulled on a T-shirt and padded down the stairs, thinking maybe she had headed down to the kitchen to get water or a cup of morning coffee. As I passed the living room on the way to check, I noticed that Cheyenne was just starting to stir.

Shit, I hadn’t even thought about what it might be like for her to wake up in a strange house with no friendly face in sight. That might be really scary, especially when added on to what I was sure would be a head-crushing hangover. So, after taking just a second to duck into the kitchen and finding it empty—to my immense disappointment—I sat down on the edge of the coffee table and gave Cheyenne’s shoulder a little shake.

“Mornin’, sunshine.” I grinned.

Cheyenne opened her eyes, immediately squeezed them shut again, and covered her head with her hands, a low and drawn out groan emanating from her throat.

If it were one of my brothers lying on my couch, I would’ve opened the blinds and made as many loud sounds as I could manage—but it was different with Cheyenne. I didn’t want to do anything to add to her discomfort. I wanted to take care of her, I’d always felt that way about her. It was all coming back to me, flooding my heart, the feelings of protectiveness I’d had for the sassy yet fragile little girl who’d been my little sister so many years ago.

“You feelin’ it this morning?” I asked, patting her shoulder to provide a little comfort.

“Oh, God. Please just let me die,” she mumbled. “No lifesaving measures necessary.”

I chuckled. “Yeah. A good hangover’ll make you feel that way, for sure.”

“There’s nothing good about this.”

“Come on,” I said, nudging her elbow. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to cure a hangover. Greasy food and a hot cup of coffee will do the trick.”

She peeked out from between her fingers, her face still scrunched up. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. Believe you me, I may not be prepared for much in this house. Hurricanes. Tornadoes. Earthquakes. Floods. All of those would catch me with my pants down. But a hangover? That’s an eventuality I am well-stocked-up for.” I motioned for her to follow me. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

She threw off the blanket and stood, wobbling a little as she found her feet. Everything in me just wanted to reach out and wrap my arm around her, guide her into the kitchen like she was still the five-year-old little girl I’d last known her as.

The feeling overwhelmed me so much, in fact, that it choked me with emotion, and I turned and stomped ahead of her into the kitchen to escape it.

Fuck, I hated emotion. I wasn’t a deep kinda guy. That was why, when it came to romance, I had boundaries. That way no lines would be blurred.

I’d always thought my preference for affairs of the extremely short variety sprang from my unwillingness to choose from the steady stream of high-quality talent that populated the bar night in and night out, and my aversion to any sort of drama. But now I suspected it grew more out of an unwillingness to get real with someone.

Was that why, with Reagan, I was suddenly open to all kinds of things I never had been before, like bringing her back to my place and letting her spend the night? Because my father’s death and the sudden reappearance of my sister was opening me up?

Or, hell… Maybe I’d just never met someone who tempted me to get real before I’d met that brilliant and beautiful woman. That was more likely. Because, damn. She affected me like no one ever had.

And she was gone. She must have crept out this morning quiet as a church mouse, because I was a light sleeper and I hadn’t heard a thing.

I’d just set the skillet on the stove when I heard the chair scrape at the kitchen table behind me, which told me that Cheyenne had followed me in and was getting settled. I couldn’t quite stand to look at her, wasn’t ready to face the emotion that seeing her looking so disheveled and vulnerable brought up in me. All these feelings that had been surfacing since yesterday were not something I was quite ready to deal with. So I busied myself, brewing coffee and frying up some bacon and eggs.

When they were ready, I set a steaming mug and plate full of food in front of her and then carried mine over to the table to join her.

She leaned forward and breathed in the aromas coming off of the food and coffee, closing her eyes and losing herself in them. I smiled, warmth flooding my chest. I’d forgotten how good and simple and just plain satisfying it felt to take care of someone. But hopefully I’d have plenty of opportunities to remind myself in the future.

“Smells good but it tastes better,” I said as I sat down with my own plate.

She leaned back in the chair and let out a long, contented sigh. Then, as if suddenly coming to life, she pulled her legs up and crossed them on the seat of the chair as she leaned forward, grabbed the fork I’d set on the edge of the plate, and dug in.

---