Page 12 of Courageous Hearts

Why couldn’t it be like that with my own brother?

“I need to get back out there,” Jameson says, effectively breaking our little bubble as he turns away and rummages through some boxes. He pulls a bottle of vodka free before looking my way. “Do you want to stay in here a while longer or come chat at the bar?”

Instinct has me wanting to stay put. To hide away from the rest of the world while I’m still feeling so raw.

But the way Jameson is looking at me, all soft and understanding, has me pushing myself off my stool. “Lemme wash up, and then I’ll meet you out there.”

“Okay,” he says with a grin, that wicked dimple in his right cheek popping.

My pulse fires a little too rapidly, and I drag my eyes away. “Y’know, you have a great name for a bartender,” I point out. Anything to get my mind off that perfect little divot.

Jameson barks a laugh. “Never heard that one before,” he teases, opening the door and holding it for me.

I grab my phone off the floor and follow him out of the storage room.

“See you out there?” he asks.

I’m still feeling a little off-kilter, but I nod, and Jameson shoots me a pleased smile before walking off down the hall. I watch him go, and only once he rounds the corner do I slip into the dressing room to clean myself up.

As I wipe off the remainder of my ruined makeup, I let my conversation with Diesel pass from my mind. At least for now.

A couple drinks. Some friendly conversation. That’s just what I need to end this day on a high note.

Feeling lighter, I head to the bar. And when Jameson’s crooked smile turns my way, I let myself wonder how that dimple would feel beneath my fingertip.

The man is probably straight. But there’s no harm in dreaming, right?

The sunlight flooding through the window wakes me before my alarm, and it’s nice. I’m not used to rising so gently. It takes my brain a good long moment to remember why that is.

Because my bedroom doesn’t have windows.

Peering through slightly blurry eyes, I squint and take in my surroundings. Bright blue walls, white curtains hanging around a large rectangular window, and…is that an honest-to-God wardrobe in the corner of the room?

Where am I?

I remember having a few drinks at the bar. Jameson laughing and Dee throwing me smirks. Bridget hanging off my arm until she left to go home. More drinks. The bar closing.

And… Oh, no.

No, no. I didn’t.

Turning slowly, I pray I’m wrong. Pray it’s a false memory. But as soon as I set eyes on my brand-new coworker sleeping soundly behind me, I know there’s no use denying it.

I begged Jameson to cuddle me to sleep.

Groaning silently, I turn away, wondering how I could possibly make my mortification more complete. When I look down and realize I’m not in my own clothes, that does it. That seals the deal.

I’m in Jameson’s pajamas.

Was I seriously craving some sort of human contact badly enough that I asked a presumably straight man—my coworker—for cuddles? And then, what, I claimed his clothes? Because that’s what happened. I remember now, grabbing them from his wardrobe and pulling them on right in front of him before falling into bed. His bed. And then forcefully tugging his arms around me. I can recall that part clearly.

I groan again, hiding my face in my hands.

Why did it have to feel so good?

“Bo?”

I freeze, afraid to make a single move. Maybe if I stay still enough, this whole thing will simply disappear. It doesn’t, of course. Jameson rustles around behind me, and then, gently, his palm settles on my back. Reluctantly, I pull my hands from my face and look over my shoulder.

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