Death by drunken bachelorettes—story at eleven.
The lack of beeping machines told her she wasn’t in the hospital. That was good. Opening one eye revealed that she wasn’t in her own bed either. That was bad.
Very. Very. Bad.
The clink of a glass from somewhere down the hall meant Veronica was also not alone. She leaned up on her elbows to assess her surroundings. The room was huge with stark white walls except for the one to her right, which was floor to ceiling windows. A sleek black dresser rested against the wall at least ten feet from the foot of the bed, and the only other furniture besides the bed was a pair of matching black nightstands.
There were minimal decorations and few personal effects. In fact, the place looked more like a museum than a bedroom. Footsteps sounded in the hall, growing closer by the second, and Veronica squealed as she hopped out of bed, keeping the sheet—which was incredibly soft—tucked up to her chin. Her stomach and head both protested the quick relocation, but she couldn’t stay in the bed.
What if its owner expected another round? Oh God, had there been a first round? Of course there had. She woke up hungover in a stranger’s bed. That meant only one thing.
Panicked, Veronica searched for her clothes, expecting to find them strewn across the floor, but they weren’t anywhere to be found.
“You’re up.” came a deep voice from the doorway.
Her head snapped up, and pain shot through her temples. “Stay right there,” she said, gripping the sheet with one hand and holding the other out in front of her. “Don’t come any closer.”
Unperturbed, the stranger held up a mug. “I brought you coffee.”
She wanted a hit of caffeine almost as badly as she wanted to undo the last twenty-four hours, but Veronica had to get out of here first.
“Where are my clothes?”
Dark brows furrowed. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play dumb,” she countered, unable to keep the hysterics from her voice. This just wasn’t like her. Veronica didn’t have sex with strangers. Hell, she didn’t even really drink. What the heck had gotten into her?
Ash was getting married. That’s what had gotten into her.
“You need to lower that sheet,” the man ordered, his voice gentle but firm.
Veronica shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
Her host leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. He was broad and built and the white tee that clung to his body revealed the defined abs beneath. The low-slung pajama pants hugged his hips. Even his bare toes were sexy.
Good God, she’d slept with an Adonis.
Lust lit through her system, tightening her body with need. So the sex had probably been amazing. So what? She’d clearly not been in any condition to give consent, and that meant however many orgasms he’d given her were given without permission.
“I’m guessing you feel pretty awful right now,” he said. “The only way you’re going to get relief is by first taking a look behind that sheet.”
Look behind it? What the hell did that mean? Did he think she’d never seen herself naked before? Fearing he’d covered her in hickeys, or worse, she pulled the cotton far enough away to see down her front.
The sheet fell to the floor immediately.
“I’m dressed,” she said, shocked.
“Yes, you are,” he affirmed.
“But. . .” Veronica pointed to the bed.
Her mystery host set the coffee mug on the nightstand in front of him. “I slept on the couch. There’s a fresh toothbrush on the bathroom sink. Do whatever you need, and I’ll be waiting in the kitchen to take you home.”
After a brief nod toward a door in the corner, he left the room. Adrenaline dropping, Veronica plopped onto the bed, afraid her knees wouldn’t hold. A man had taken her home, put her in his bed fully clothed, and slept on his couch. Her brain couldn’t compute this information. Had she come onto him, and he’d turned her down? Was she so unequivocally unattractive that he couldn’t bear to sleep with her?
Not getting sexed up while too drunk to protest or participate was a good thing, but still. Her ego felt the sting.
Elbows on her knees and head in her hands, Veronica concentrated on the night before. She and Melanie had taken an Uber downtown. They’d started at Rippy’s on the corner by the arena, and worked their way down the block. Somewhere along the way, Melanie had picked up a guy and refused to move on.
After that, things grew fuzzy.
She remembered Melanie going off to dance. That’s when Veronica had opted to carry on without her. Not the brightest move, but then Veronica hadn’t exactly been in her right mind. She tried to recall how much she’d had to drink, but one cocktail after another flowed through her mind. Was it five? Ten? More?
At some point she’d been cold. Then there’d been lots of neon and sweaty bodies and stairs. Lots of stairs. She’d called for a drink. A bartender appeared. A pretty one. He’d flirted with her. Or had he?
Veronica ran a hand through her tangled curls and moaned. She must look awful. After stumbling into the bathroom, which was as white and pristine as the bedroom, she found the promised toothbrush still in the packaging, toothpaste, and a washcloth. Staring at her Medusa hair and smeared makeup in the mirror, Veronica understood the bullet she’d dodged. She didn’t have to remember everything to know that she’d likely passed out at some point. Anything could have happened to her.
But it didn’t. From what she could tell, she had her gorgeous host to thank for that.
* * *
If his guest felt as bad as she looked, she was going to need more than the bottled water and extra strength pain pills he’d already set on the counter. Cam considered making her eggs but doubted her stomach would tolerate food.
Her assumption that he’d taken advantage of her was understandable, though he’d never forget the image of her standing in front of those windows wrapped in his sheet like a Valkyrie ready to do battle. He hadn’t touched her, of course, other than carrying her into the apartment and tucking her in. Call him crazy, but Cam preferred his women conscious and sober.
At least he now knew her name. One ID had been found at the end of cleanup last night, and they’d matched it with a credit card left at the main floor bar to start a tab. He’d had both sent over this morning. The picture confirmed her identity, though the woman on the license looked happier than the one who’d kept him out of his bed.
The name sounded familiar, so Cam had done a quick search to see if anything came up. His mystery woman had quite the resume. An award-winning producer involved in the making of more than a dozen number one country hits. Seemed like a person of her success and stature wouldn’t need to go out alone.
The pat of footsteps came from the hall, and his guest appeared looking fresher than she’d been ten minutes ago, though still a bit green.
“Have a seat,” he said, pointing to the water and pills on the island. “Those will help.”
She cleared her throat and set the mug he’d left for her on the granite surface. “I don’t want to intrude any longer than I already have. If you’ll let me know where my phone is, I’ll order a car.”
Cam reached behind him for the small purse and passed it her way. “Your phone is dead. I don’t have the right charger.”
Her shoulders fell. “Then if you could call me a cab.”
“I’ll take you home. It won’t take me long to get dressed.”
Bloodshot eyes met his. “Why didn’t you take me home last night?”
A fair question. “I didn’t know who you were last night.” Cam nodded toward the purse. “I searched your purse after you passed out, but there was no ID. The staff found it later, and I had it brought over. It’s in there now, along with the credit card you used to start a tab.”
A mumbled curse crossed her lips before she repeated his words. “Passed out?”
“You blacked out before I could get you outside. The cold air might have sobered you up, but we didn’t make it that f
ar.”
Her eyes closed as slender fingers covered her mouth. Cam could almost see the memories rushing back.
“I got sick, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
“You’re the bartender.”
“I am.”
Both hands covered her face. “I’m so embarrassed.”
Cam set his own mug on the counter. “You aren’t the first person to drink too much, but I have to ask. What was one of Nashville’s most successful producers doing out on her own, drinking herself into oblivion?”
Her head shot up, her blue eyes wide.
“I Googled you,” he admitted. “The name Veronica Shepherd sounded familiar, and I was curious who I’d brought home.”
Humiliation turned to annoyance. “If you were so worried about who was in your bed, why did you bring me here at all?”
“Would you prefer I’d left you on the street?”
Lips tight, she reached for the bottle of water. “No, I wouldn’t.” Lifting a pill off the counter, she hesitated and glanced around. “Wait a minute.” Veronica crossed to the tall windows on the far side of the living room. “We’re in The Gulch, aren’t we? That’s Music Row out there.”
Cam set his mug in the sink. “Yes.”
“How does a bartender afford one of the most expensive apartments in town?”
Crossing his arms, he leaned on the counter edge. “I’m the owner of Rhodes Tavern. Cameron Rhodes.”
His guest plopped onto the sofa behind her. “You’re Cameron Rhodes?”
She made it sound like he was on an FBI most wanted list. “Yes. You can call me Cam.”
“The most eligible bachelor Cameron Rhodes?”
He never should have let that article run. Thousands of eligible men inhabited this city. They only earned the most title if they were wealthy. Cam wasn’t ashamed of his success. He’d earned every damn penny in his accounts. But his life had been one annoying incident after another since the most eligible moniker had been added to his name.
“I’m no more eligible than the next single man.”
“Wha. . . But. . . Why would the owner be tending bar?”
“I like to give as many on my staff the night off as I can during the holiday.” Uncurling off the counter, he headed toward the bedroom. “By the way, Merry Christmas. Take the pills, and I’ll be back to take you home.”
A string of profanity followed Cam down the hall, followed by the words, “I need to use your phone!”
* * *
How was she going to explain missing Christmas breakfast?
Veronica had never missed the family breakfast, mostly because her mother wouldn’t allow it. This was Marsha Hamilton’s favorite holiday. Every inch of her immaculate home was elaborately decorated, including four Christmas trees—all with different themes—and enough lights on the outside to draw a line of slow-moving cars that stretched all the way down the block every night between Thanksgiving and New Years.
The neighbors had put up a fuss for years, but once they realized they couldn’t beat her, many joined the fun, adding their own displays. Which always Marsha made sure to top.
The temptation to show up at noon acting as if nothing was amiss was ruled out by the certainty that by now, her mother and both of her sisters had not only been calling her phone nonstop, they’d likely driven to her house and turned frantic when she wasn’t there. Which would then lead to them calling Ash, and by now everyone in her life probably thought she was dead.
She could hear it now. For years to come, they’d tell the story of that time Veronica ruined Christmas by scaring the hell out of them.
Her mother picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Veronica Louise Hamilton Shepherd, where in the world are you? Do you know how worried we’ve been? Why haven’t you answered your phone? Are you hurt?”
The urge to bang her head against the expensive countertop almost won out. “I’m fine, Mom. I went out with a friend last night and had too much to drink.”
“A friend? What friend? Where are you?”
Cam returned to the kitchen looking as if he’d walked straight out of GQ magazine. The black turtleneck stretched tight across his broad shoulders and was tucked into the waistband of perfectly tailored black pants. She didn’t need a close look to recognize the Rolex on his wrist, or that the loafers were real leather. Probably Italian. As eligible as the next guy her elbow. The man was a walking wet dream.
“Veronica? Are you there?”
“Yeah, Mom, I’m here.” Dragging her eyes from Cam, she checked the clock on the stove. Nine thirty-five. If they left now, she could shower and join the festivities by eleven. “I’m sorry I missed breakfast, but I’ll be there before lunch.”
There were mumbles in the background, and her mom said, “Yes, she’s okay,” before returning to the call. “Is Ash coming? We called him trying to find you, but he didn’t answer.”
Gritting her teeth, Veronica shared her ex-husband’s big news. “I’m afraid Ash won’t be with us today.” Or any holidays from now on, she almost added. “He’s in Georgia with his new fiancée, but I’ll see him this evening.”
When he’d shared the news the day before, Ash had insisted they get together tonight. Why, Veronica didn’t know.
“Since when does Ash have a fiancée? I still don’t understand why you two ever split up.”
The pain pills had yet to dull her throbbing headache, and this conversation wasn’t helping.
“I need to go so I can get ready. Tell everyone I’m sorry I scared them, but I’ll be over soon.” Before her mother could respond, Veronica ended the call and slid the phone across the island countertop. “Thank you. At least now they know I’m alive.”
“No problem.” Cam looked ready to say more, but he held his tongue.
She deserved whatever lecture he was holding in. Though at thirty-four, she could take care of herself, getting drunk enough to pass out without someone around to protect her had quite possibly been her dumbest move in a decade. Not to put too dramatic a spin on things, but Veronica owed him a huge debt for giving her a safe place to stay.
That she’d been saved by Cameron Rhodes was still a bit surreal. Her sister, Emma, had devoured the article in The Tennessean magazine, rattling off his details in numerous emails. Veronica had glanced at the Internet version, but all of the images had been of a man in black from some distance away. Man looking seriously out a window. Man looking serious next to a fancy car. She’d never have recognized him serving drinks in a bar, even if she hadn’t been three sheets to the wind.
“About last night—” she started, but he cut her off.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I don’t normally do that,” Veronica said, not sure why she cared what he thought of her. “Drink like that, I mean.”
The dark-haired Adonis nodded. “Good to know.”
“I appreciate you taking care of me.” She dropped her eyes. “I’m mortified, but I’m grateful.”
Cam lifted a key from a bowl at the end of the counter. “Like I said, don’t worry about it.” He bent to retrieve her white ankle boots and held them out to her. They looked ridiculous in his grasp. “If you’re ready.”
Message received. Time to go. Accepting the shoes, she used the counter to steady herself as she slipped them on.
“What about my coat?”
“Your coat check ticket was for another bar.” He offered her a large black option pulled from a hook by the door. “You can use this one.”
Veronica took the offering and slid the expensive garment over her shoulders. The coat swallowed her. “Is this cashmere?” she asked.
“Wool cashmere.” He opened the door and said, “After you.”
Feeling like a child wearing her father’s ridiculously expensive overcoat, she shuffled over the threshold, hoping the halls would be abandoned. Regardless of whether they’d had sex or not, this was a walk of shame, and conside
ring the building, there was a chance they might encounter someone she knew. Most of her associates lived beyond the city limits, either on secluded, expansive properties, or in posh communities. But there would always be those who preferred the buzz of the city, and The Gulch sat in direct proximity to famed Music Row, the epicenter of country music.
“I’m sorry if I’ve kept you from a family gathering,” she said when the silence grew uncomfortable.
“You haven’t.” They entered the elevator, and he pressed the button for the ground floor.
Lucky him that his loved ones didn’t demand an early start to the festivities. Seconds later, the elevator doors glided open, and Veronica spotted a large Christmas tree in the lobby. The sight made her realize the lack of decoration in Cam’s place.
“You don’t have a tree.”
Cam pointed to the poinsettia-surrounded pine in the corner. “There’s a tree right there.”
“No, I mean you don’t have a tree in your apartment.”
Instead of walking to the glass doors at the entrance, he led her in the opposite direction with a gentle hand on her back. “I don’t put up a tree.”
She was enough her mother’s daughter to be disturbed by such a statement. “Why not?”
“There’s no need.”
Veronica blinked at the ridiculousness of that statement. “But it’s Christmas. Don’t you celebrate?” She realized he might be Jewish. Or an atheist. Though wouldn’t an atheist still take advantage of the Santa part? Who didn’t like presents? “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with not celebrating. Everyone is entitled to their own beliefs.”
“I celebrate by giving my staff half the day off and padding their checks with a bonus.” A key card appeared from his pocket. He held it against a black box, then pushed the door open with one arm, waiting for her to step through.
He may be a buzzkill when it came to Christmas, but she couldn’t say he wasn’t a gentleman.
Among The Stars: A Shooting Stars Novella Page 2
