Page 4 of Shattered Sun

But then things start to get fuzzy.

Images and sounds and people blurring together. And then… nothing. Not until minutes ago, when I woke up in this cloud of confusion.

Was it the alcohol? I may not be a shots kind of girl, but I’ve been sloshed before last night. I never felt like this the next day. Never forgot hours of time. Never woke up amnesiac and marred. No way all this happened from shots.

Maybe I was drugged. But when? How?

I replay what I remember, then mentally slap myself. “Dumb. Ass.”

When we left the table to dance, we abandoned our drinks. And like a total fucking idiot, I picked it up and downed the entire thing minutes later. We may live in a small town, and I may know most of the townies, but it doesn’t mean Iknowthem.

Pissed at myself, I rise from the bed. I roll my shoulders and move my legs to stretch my limbs. Hesitantly, I reach down and slip my hand between my legs. Gently trace the junction of my thighs for other signs of abuse, and note nothing feels tender or painful or different. Thank God.

Another hiss slips from my lips as I amble toward the attached bathroom. I crank the hot water in the shower and spin around to face the mirror as it heats. Tears sting the backs of my eyes as I drop the blanket and pull off my tank top. As I stare at my reflection. As I take in the bruises on my breasts, thighs, and arms. As I survey the minor cuts. Slowly, I spin to look at my back and cringe. Dark purple colors both cheeks of my butt. Finger marks on my shoulders.

Nausea claws its way up my throat, but I swallow it down and step into the shower. Under the hot spray, I close my eyes and imagine the water washing away the demons I see but don’t really know. And when the water runs cold, I shut off the shower. I decide whatever happened ends here and now. Mentally, I bury the hurt and confusion clouding my thoughts.

Drying off in a daze, I slip on a pair of leggings and a long-sleeve hooded shirt. Pull my hair up in a messy top knot and plaster on a smile as I open my bedroom door. Mask the pain as my skin chafes the fabric. Inhale one more deep breath and extinguish any assumptions about what happened last night during my blackout.

You can’t live in a constant state of what-ifs and maybes. Let it go, Kirsten. Move on.

“There she is,” Skylar greets as I emerge from the hallway and into the open living area. “Bacon, eggs, pancakes, and fruit are ready.”

I step up to her at the kitchen counter, wrap her in my arms, bite the inside of my cheek as my body screams, then kiss her hair. “Thanks, birthday girl.” Grabbing a plate, I load it up. “You have a good night?”

“Best birthday yet.”

My brows twitch for the briefest of seconds before I turn to face her. “Good. Glad it was memorable.”

I sure as hell will never forget it.

ONE

TRAVIS

Present

I will not stare.I will not stare.

Lifting a steaming mug of coffee to my lips, I blow on the hot morning elixir before taking a sip. I stare down at the black coffee and force myself to focus onitand nother. Focus on the important things—like the meeting with my father in a couple hours—and mentally preparing myself for every possible outcome.

What I shouldn’t be focused on is the curvy blonde with a green guest check pad in her hand and a spellbinding smile on her perfect, pouty lips. But fuck, I can’t seem to look away.

Do I instigate daily flirt sessions with Kirsten? Damn right I do. I live for her bright smile, for the moment she leans in closer. My day would be shit without her.

Occasionally flirting—or all the time, if I’m honest—is one thing, but unabashedly gawking is wholly different.

As gentlemanly as I want to be, it’s downright impossible to not ogle Kirsten during my thirty minutes on this stool. Every morning, with my eyes on my coffee, I chant the same line over and over in my head.I will not stare.And every morning, without fail, my unfettered gaze locks on her curves.

Hips swaying, Kirsten weaves between chairs before reaching a couple seated at a window table. She sets plates down, reiterating orders as she does, then asks if they need anything else. They politely decline, and she tells them to enjoy their breakfast before spinning on her heel and waltzing back toward the counter.

I drop my gaze back to the mug in my hand before taking another sip. As I go to set the mug on the counter, Kirsten is there with a fresh pot of coffee in her hand.

“Refill?”

My eyes lift to hers, and my pulse stutters. I swallow and tell myself to snap the hell out of it. “Please,” I say, pushing the mug closer to her. “Still not awake yet.”

Kirsten fills the mug, slides it back in my direction, sets the coffee pot down, then drops her elbows to the counter and leans forward. And it takes every ounce of strength I own to not look down the V of her shirt. Not that it matters, I can still see her cleavage in my periphery.

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