by Kait Nolan
Someone had filmed her confrontation with Jayson. Someone on her staff, someone she’d made a part of her work family, had recorded the whole damned thing. It hadn’t been clear from the position of the camera who it had been. They’d sat on it until the final paperwork had been signed, sealed, and delivered. Until she was no longer connected to Olympus—and couldn’t do anything to retaliate.
But it had already gone viral, racking up four hundred thousand views since yesterday.
Jesus.
She poured more whiskey, knocking it back just as quickly and relishing the burn down her throat and into her chest. It complemented the fresh rage that had been simmering there since she’d seen the video.
Someone leaned against the bar between her stool and the next. “You lookin’ to forget something, sugar?”
She poured more whiskey. “If you don’t want me to take that pool stick and shove it up your ass, you will walk away right now.”
“Aw now, don’t be like that.”
Slowly, she turned her head to look at the guy. He wore a white cowboy hat. It was the only pristine thing about him. Two or three days’ scruff dusted his angular jaw, and some kind of dark grime rimmed his nails. Grease probably. A guy who worked with his hands. Under other circumstances, she might have been into that. She appreciated a working man—even more so after the flagrant betrayal from her white-collar ex. But tonight she was feeling mean. Or meaner than usual.
Something of her mood must’ve shown in her expression because the flirtatious smile slid off his face and he backed away real slow, as if she were some kind of rabid animal.
Looked like he had a few brain cells after all.
Turning back to her whiskey, she sipped this one slower, going back to mulling her problem. Even if she had some kind of PR team who could act—and the idea that she’d have such a thing was laughable—there’d be no containing the video. That runaway train would keep on escalating because people loved drama, loved bad behavior.
Look at the chef who utterly lost her shit and tried to kill her boss.
Never mind that if she’d been trying to kill him, he’d be dead. Or that the whole thing had nothing to do with their professional relationship. That was the relationship the public at large actually knew about. They’d kept their personal ties quiet. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. But now…This would taint her professionally. No matter that she had a Michelin star or that she’d won the James Beard Rising Star Chef of the Year. No one would care about the truth of the situation. The reasons why.
This was a shitstorm of epic proportions.
It would fade. Eventually. But who would want to touch her after this? How was she going to support her father? Haven Acres was ungodly expensive. After finally getting him out of the crappy state facility he’d been languishing in, she couldn’t bear to send him back. She didn’t know how much he knew, how much he was aware of, and she wasn’t ever going to risk him believing she didn’t care or that he didn’t matter. They’d both suffered enough of that from the woman who’d given birth to her.
The lone comfort in all of this was that the sale of her share of Olympus gave her enough cushion that she could figure it out. She didn’t have to rush and leap at the first option that presented itself. She’d be generous and assume something would come up. Optimism came easier as the level of amber liquid in the bottle dropped.
Unless something miraculously turned up in the next week or two, she’d have to tell her sisters something. That was a real pisser. They’d want her to talk about feelings. She’d rather scrape her knuckles across a microplane. What good did talking about that shit do? It didn’t change anything. And God, she really didn’t want to admit the truth of what happened with Jayson. So maybe…maybe she could come up with some half truth about why she’d decided to walk away. Right, because they’d believe her when she spontaneously walked away from her life-long dream for some other reason. She had time to figure that out, too.
The bottle of whiskey clattered against the lip of the glass as she poured herself another shot. In the category of more immediate problems, how the hell was she going to get home? Driving was off the table. Had been three shots ago. She wasn’t about to call the inn and worry her very pregnant sister. That would lead to those questions she didn’t want to answer. Same result if she called Flynn. Kennedy was working, and her other brother-in-law was the freaking Sheriff. That’d look just fabulous for Xander to come rolling in to scrape her off the floor here. Yeah, no.
There was really only one person she could call. One person who wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t lecture. Resigned, Athena pulled out her phone and dialed while she still could.
Chapter 4
Logan jolted awake to “Carry On Wayward Son.” The book he’d been reading fell to the floor with a thud, and his border collies rose from their spots on the rug at his feet to give a pair of short, sharp barks, as if to say “We’re ready, Dad.”
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he grabbed for the phone skittering across the table and thumbed the screen to accept the call. “Hello?”
“Logan.”
The sound of Athena’s voice on the other end of the line had him straightening in the chair. “Hey.” He wasn’t about to tell her he’d been sleeping at—he checked his watch—nine-thirty. She’d probably saved him from a kink in his back.
“I nnneed a faaaavor.” Her words were slurred, and he could hear the faint sound of voices and indistinct music in the background. Was she drunk dialing him?
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Need a ride.”
He bit back the myriad of questions he wanted to ask and zeroed in on the most important. “Where are you?”
“The Right Attitude.”
He went brows up. That place was pretty rough. What the hell was she doing there? “Don’t go anywhere. I’m on my way.”
He left the dogs home, much to their disappointment. By the time he got to the bar, he’d considered and rejected a dozen scenarios for what was going on. She’d either tell him or she wouldn’t. His best guess was this either had something to do with her family or she didn’t want them to know about whatever it was she’d decided to drown in alcohol. Why else would she call him?
He didn’t see a car he recognized, but then he had no idea what she drove. Either way, that was a problem for tomorrow. Inside, he spotted her almost at once. She sat at the bar, a semi-circle of space around her as the other patrons gave her a wide berth. Her hair was down, curtaining her face, and she swayed a bit on her stool. As he neared and caught sight of the mostly empty fifth of whiskey, he understood why.
Knowing she was a woman who struck first and asked questions later, he didn’t touch her, instead leaning into her field of vision. The moment he caught sight of the unfettered grief on her face he wanted to gather her into his arms.
Oh baby, what happened?
But he kept his hands to himself. “Athena.”
At the sound of his voice, she turned toward him and her expression of misery faded. “Llllogan. You came.”
“Said I would. You ready?”
She glanced down at the last inch of alcohol in the bottle and frowned. “I’m not finished.”
“I’m thinking you’re gonna regret tomorrow enough without finishing that off. How ’bout you come with me?”
She squinted at him. “Are we going swimming? You were fun to swim with.”
A blast of arousal shot through him at the suggestion. Under other circumstances, he’d have given damned near anything to go back to Opal Springs and get naked with her. But she was three sheets to the wind and hurting. “I think it’s still a mite cold for swimming.”
“Too bad.” She finished off the whiskey in her glass and groped for the bottle.
He nudged it out of her reach. “I still think we ought to get out of here.”
“I told you that last summer.” Her lips curved, as if at the memory.
“Yeah, you did. It was a great idea.”
“It really was. You look really good naked.”
He couldn’t stop the grin. “You look pretty amazing naked yourself.”
“We should get naked again.”
Yes, please.
“What about your boyfriend?”
Her face shut down with a scowl. “I kicked that cheating bastard to the…hiccup…curb.”
So she was single again. Good to know. Not that he’d be doing anything about that tonight. “Good for you. Why don’t you come with me? You can tell me about how you castrated him.”
“Okay.” She slid off the stool and would’ve kept on going until she hit the ground if he hadn’t caught her.
“Whoa there. I’ve gotcha.” Sliding an arm more firmly around her, he tried not to notice how good it felt to have her body plastered against his. A feat made harder by the fact that she rubbed her cheek against his chest like a cat.
The bartender eyed him up and down.
“She called me for a ride,” Logan explained. “Is her tab settled?”
“Paaaaid up front,” she slurred.
The bartender nodded confirmation.
“All right, then. Let’s get you out of here.” He scooped up the purse hanging on the back of her stool and headed for the door.
She took two, stumbling steps and sagged into him, giggling. “Shhh, don’t tell Pru.”
“Nope. We won’t tell Pru.” He’d take her home with him first and see about getting her sobered up some before driving her back to the inn.
As soon as he had her buckled into the passenger seat, he dashed a text off to Flynn, letting him know Athena was safe. Remembering what she’d said, he sent a follow up text asking him not to tell Pru. He didn’t feel great asking the guy to lie to his wife, even by omission, but something about this whole thing pricked his therapist’s need for discretion. Circling around, he slipped into the driver’s seat.
She drooped against the door, pressing her cheek to the glass. “Shitty, shitty night. Shitty, shitty week.”
He hoped like hell she didn’t get sick in his truck. “Why’s it shitty?”
“Fucking asshole was fucking my backstabbing sous chef.”
He winced. “Ouch. That is shitty.”
“That’s not all. I blew it up.”
“Blew what up?” He was reasonably sure she didn’t mean a literal bomb.
“Everything.”
“What’s everything?”
She didn’t answer, trailing a finger through the condensation of her breath against the window. Oh yeah, she was gonna be in hangover central tomorrow. And she’d be pissed if she thought he’d seen her vulnerable. So he lapsed into silence for the rest of the drive.
She was only semiconscious by the time they got back to the farm. Not trusting her to walk, he swung her up into his arms and carried her to the house. Her head lolled against his shoulder. He thought she’d passed out until her lips began to nibble their way up the column of his throat. The blood drained out of his head.
“Athena.”
“You taste good.”
With considerably less dexterity than he’d possessed a few minutes ago, he managed to get the door open and carried her inside. Water. Water and coffee and some preemptive painkillers. That was the plan.
As he came through the door, the dogs began to bark. Athena groaned at the noise, curling closer into him.
“Hush!” he ordered. They did as commanded, but still milled around his feet, sniffing at Athena as he crossed to the sofa. Very carefully, he lowered her.
She opened her eyes as he was trying to extricate his hands. “Logan.” The low, sleepy rasp stoked his nerves.
“I’m gonna make you some coffee.” If his words were choked, she wasn’t likely to remember.
“Don’t need coffee.” Fisting her hands in his shirt, she yanked.
Already unbalanced, he tumbled onto her. Her arms locked around him and her mouth found his like a heat-seeking missile. His brain emptied of everything but the taste of her—whiskey and heat and woman. Potent and delicious. That flavor had haunted him for nearly a year.
She was a fever beneath him, her hands skating over his shoulders, across his chest, touching and taking and driving him mad as her mouth devoured his. He wanted this. Needed this. Needed her. Not until her hands fumbled with his belt buckle did he manage to come back to himself.
She was drunk off her ass. They couldn’t do this.
With herculean effort, he managed to pull back, clamping his hands around her wrists to stop her from getting further than the half-unbuckled belt. “Stop.”
“Want you.”
“I want you, too. But not like this. You’re drunk, Athena.”
She pouted. It shouldn’t have been sexy. “I can still help you get it up.”
They both looked down at the erection straining his jeans. “I don’t think that’s in question. But you aren’t thinking straight, and I’m not going to take advantage.”
“Because you’re a fucking gentleman.”
“Yeah.”
“Dying breed,” she declared.
“Maybe so. I’m getting you water and making coffee.” He managed to slip free of her grip and hurried to grab some water and Advil in the kitchen.
She had a dog on either side of her when he came back. “I’m seeing double.”
“They’re littermates. That’s Bo and Peep.”
She snickered. “Where’s Little?”
“You’ll have to ask my sister, Laurel. She named them as a joke. Here, take these.”
She tossed back the painkillers and guzzled down the water. He waited a minute to see if it was going to stay down. When she didn’t immediately throw it back up, he went back to start the coffee. As he moved around the kitchen, he could hear the incoherent monologue she directed at the dogs.
His jaw cracked on a yawn. He was gonna regret this whole thing tomorrow when he had to be up before the sun. But not nearly as much as she was going to regret it. Nearly an entire fifth of whiskey by herself. He shook his head.
By the time the coffee beeped, he’d gotten his arousal under control. “Hey Athena, how do you take your coffee?”
Not hearing a response, he headed back to the living room.
She was passed out on the sofa, one arm draped over Peep, with Bo curled in the crook of her legs.
He sighed. There’d be no getting her home tonight. She could sleep it off in the guest room. Shooing the dogs, he scooped her up again and carried her upstairs to bed.
A scream dragged Athena from sleep and into a world of pain. Her head wasn’t attached to her body. That was the only possible explanation for why it hurt so damned bad. The scream came again, longer, louder this time, and she realized it wasn’t a scream at all. It was a rooster crowing the dawn. The sound shot jagged shards of ice through her brain and had her curling into herself on a moan. Dawn meant it was way the hell too early to be up, and if that thing didn’t shut up, she was going to wring its neck and turn it into a stew. She knew a thing or three about turning tough meat into something soft and succulent. Even if the idea of it made her stomach turn at the moment.
The cock crowed yet again and she wanted to rage at it, but that would require moving and making noise, neither of which she was capable of just now. And why was that? Struggling to swim through the ocean of throbbing in her skull, she tried to remember what had happened. Her mouth tasted as if something had crawled inside and built a nest, then died. But there was a faint undertone of something sweet and medicinal. Whiskey. She had dim memories of a bottle of Jack Daniels. Seemed like there’d been a lot of it, so maybe that had something to do with why she felt like death. But she was in the restaurant business. She knew how to hold her liquor. Except…no, she wasn’t in the restaurant business anymore.
A fresh wave of agony rolled over her as everything came flooding back. Olympus. The video.
She whimpered.
The last thing she remembered was being somewhere around the halfway mark on t
hat bottle of Jack. Where the hell was she?
Cracking her eyes, she squinted up at the ceiling. A motley assortment of glow-in-the-dark stars were scattered across it. She knew those stars, knew those faux constellations of The Waddler Penguin and Quackers the Duck. She’d stared at them every morning of her life from the time she was six until she turned twelve. Frowning, she turned her head—regretting it at once—and caught sight of the built-in bookcase along one wall. The wall wasn’t the right shade of pale purple but instead some warm neutral that glowed faintly with morning light. The furniture, including the bed she lay on, was different than she remembered. But this was her childhood bedroom. Which meant she was still dreaming. Of course she’d have a hangover in her actual dream. Because she couldn’t get the blessing of oblivion like a normal person. And if the headache was this bad while she was unconscious, what would it be like when she surfaced?
Fighting through the ache, she dragged herself upright, bracing for the unsteady pitch and roll of her stomach. When she thought she could manage it, she stumbled toward the window to look out at her farm, at the home she’d been forced to vacate so many years ago. Except this wasn’t her farm. Her farm had never looked all green and lush and gorgeous like this. But still, she recognized the barn, painted a cheery red, with crisp, white trim. Beyond it she could just see the first rows of the apple orchard where she’d spent hours climbing trees and reading. A wave of homesickness, stronger even than the hangover from hell, all but brought her to her knees. She didn’t know which was crueler…that her dreaming mind should have brought her back here at all or that it should have made the place look like paradise.
It all looked so real. As if she could reach out and touch it. And suddenly, she wanted to do that with a desperation she hadn’t felt since she’d been taken away from here as a child. She made her way downstairs, past the walls that should have held pictures documenting her childhood, and out the front door, into the breaking dawn. The air was still crisp and full of the scents of green, growing things and rich, freshly-turned earth. Birds twittered faintly and the rooster had finally shut up. Thank God. She clutched her elbows, hugging them close as she soaked up the sense of home. Not as she remembered, but as it should have been. It soothed some long raw wound in her soul.
