He directed Sarah to a high shelf. After pulling the box down—and nearly clobbering herself on the head with it—she brought it to him. As he was rummaging around, his phone vibrated. “Would you get that?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Kinda late?” She picked up the phone and frowned at the screen. “Hello?”
A sick feeling, like when one accidentally hits “Reply All” in an email never intended for all, jolted him. Oh shit! Wrong phone! He could only watch in horror because she wasn’t paying any attention to his wildly flapping hand.
“Well, who is this?” she snapped. Her eyes slid toward him. “Bunny? Are you serious? That’s your actual name? Like, your parents named you that?”
He did a face palm, then feebly motioned once more for her to turn over his goddamn phone. She kept her eyes on him but didn’t make a move. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. Your first name is Puck,” she chortled.
That’s the last I’ll hear from Bunny. He hung his head. In the blink of an eye, he’d swung from wanting to fuck Sarah senseless to wanting to throttle her senseless. The shoulder was simply a sidebar. As he rose and came toward her, she hurriedly said, “Well, he’s a little indisposed right now. Some extracurricular acrobatics that didn’t go as expected, and he’ll be laid … up—”
He plucked the phone from her hand. “Bunny?”
“Quinn? What’s going on?”
“Uh, well, it’s a long story—”
“No doubt it’s a fascinating one.” Sarcasm dripped off every word. “Look, I—”
He dropped his hand holding the phone to his side. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but he could hear the squawk.
Meanwhile, Sarah was tiptoeing toward his door. “You’re not going anywhere,” he warned.
While Bunny’s voice yammered on, Sarah dashed to the door. “Actually, I am.” Archer darted through, followed by Sarah, who closed the door nearly all the way, leaving only her nose visible through the crack. “’Night, Sparky. It’s been real.”
The door snicked shut, and he stood staring after it, the phone still cradled in his hand. He brought it to his ear. “Bunny?” No answer. “Uh, Bunny? You there?”
With a sigh, he sank onto his bed and awkwardly wrestled with the phone until he deleted her contact information. It occurred to him he should have felt bad about it, but he hadn’t thought of her in weeks. A twinge of guilt poked him. The level of alcohol in his system might have explained why his self-examination sharpened, but for whatever reason, he saw himself through Sarah’s eyes. He was, in fact, Hunter McMurphy. And he didn’t like it one damn bit.
As he lay in bed a while later, he replayed his evening with Sarah, briefly wondering why the hell she’d shoved him in the family room—likely because she’d had more sense than he had. His mind meandered to Sarah’s exchange with Bunny. Is your first name Puck? In spite of the cringe-worthy conversation, laughter spurted from him.
Later, as he bumped along on a wave of uncomfortable, restless sleep, the most important takeaway of the night was how Sarah had smelled and felt in his arms.
Sarah brushed her teeth—twice—scoured her face, and let Archer back inside from his foray out in the yard. One glance toward her bedroom door confirmed she’d locked it—not that she expected anyone to come crashing through it. Especially an anyone with a broken shoulder. But she was tipsy and couldn’t trust herself to push Quinn away if he got close again.
Damn hormones!
Staring at herself in the mirror, she debated slipping on one of her newer sexy cami sets.In case her room combusted and firemen came to the rescue, of course, she had to look her best. Which was why she spread a dab of foundation over her face, slicked on a little gloss, and plumped her hair. There. Now she was ready for firemen to break down her door … or anyone else who happened to wander by.
Had Archer been capable of an eye-roll, he’d have given her one as he curled up on his bed.
She slid between cool, crisp sheets, clicked off the lamp, and stared at the shadowed ceiling.
Omigod, what did I almost do tonight? And with Quinn Hadley, Ladies’ Man Supreme, of all people! She sighed and ran her hand over the silky cami, then heaved herself out of bed to change into a more practical pair of knit shorts and a tank that read, “I Drink and I Know Things.”
It should read “I Drink and I Know Squat.”
Her limbs were lead-like and achy, no doubt from the spill she’d taken with Quinn earlier. Despite her fatigue, a persistent cough prevented her from settling in. Within an hour, the cough had brought on nausea and drove her into the bathroom. Why did she drink so damn much tonight? Shit, she hadn’t gotten sick from overdrinking since college.
After she emptied the contents of her stomach, she cleaned up and dragged her butt back to bed. Soon she was shivering so hard her teeth clacked together. She piled on a few sets of sweats and wool socks, wrapped her shoulders in a blanket, and padded to the kitchen in search of herbal tea. Her head pounded. The short walk left her so exhausted she had to lean on the counter and catch her breath.
“What’s going on, Sunshine?” Quinn’s low voice behind her nearly launched her into the ceiling.
She wheeled, twisting herself in the blanket and almost tumbling over. In the gloom lit by a mere refrigerator door light, she took in his hulking presence, clad in only shorts and his arm in a sling. In his good hand, he held an ice pack.
“Oh damn,” she squeaked. “Can you play hockey?”
Confusion crossed his face. “Not tonight. Are you okay?”
She
