“Coffee.” He pushed the mug into her numb hand and wrapped her fingers around it. “Don’t drop the mug. It’s one of the last ones I have of hers.”
She was having a hard time putting two coherent thoughts together. Not only had he brought coffee, but there was also a stack of golden toast sitting on a paper plate and a jar of jam with a knife sticking out of it.
Cymbals were crashing, and not necessarily inside her head. The only thing she knew for sure was that whatever was going on here, it was his fault. Knowing it was an uncharitable thought—he had made toast, after all—didn’t stop her from having it. “Hers?”
“My mother.” He tapped the photo frame before putting a finger beneath her hand to nudge it—and the mug—upward toward her lips. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”
She actually took a sip of the coffee, which had exactly the right amount of cream and sugar, before she determinedly set the mug back on the tray. Considering everything, it was a minor miracle she didn’t spill it or drop it. “What have you done? Why am I here?”
He leaned leisurely against the doorjamb and cradled his mug in his wide palm. “I’m wounded.” He sounded mildly amused. The corners of his sinfully shaped lips curved upward. “You don’t remember? And here I’ve landed myself in the doghouse with my sister for choosing you over my nephew’s birthday.”
“No I do not remember.” She shoved her tangled hair away from her eyes, the better to glare at him. “Obviously.” She drew out the word with what Ros—a diehard Harry Potter fan—had long ago termed Nell’s best Snape-ishness.
His green eyes seemed to gain an extra sparkle as they traveled from the mop that her hair must resemble, down over her wrinkled silk tank and even more wrinkled skirt, to her toes that were actually clenching against the wood floor.
Her cheeks felt hot. Naturally, she needed a pedicure in the worst way, too. She hadn’t made her last standing appointment with Renée because of a filing Martin had—
It all came tumbling down on her again, managing to supplant even the worry over what had occurred here last night.
Martin’s betrayal.
The argument with Ros.
Her recent change from being among the gainfully employed.
The weight of it all slammed down on her shoulders, making her slump.
Every muscle and joint and hair follicle aching, she sank down on the edge of the bed, then just as hurriedly pushed off it again.
The bed belonged to Archer Templeton. She had no idea at all how she’d come to be sleeping in it, whether she was still fully clothed or not. She knew the man from old, and he was cleverer than the devil himself.
She snatched a piece of his gum from the dresser, peeled off the foil and shoved it into her mouth to banish the deceased Mr. Cottontail. Then she steeled herself to brush past him to leave the room. Not that she knew where she was headed, but anywhere was better than the bedroom.
As soon as she was in the hall, she spotted the staircase and aimed straight for it. She pounded down the steps as though Archer was at her heels, even though he wasn’t. She felt breathless and even more nauseated when she reached the bottom. The living room was straight ahead. The kitchen to the right. She turned left and fortunately found the powder room.
She slammed the door, locked it and spent several minutes hanging over the sink while cold water ran over her wrists until she felt a little better.
Oh, her head still felt as heavy as a bowling ball with loose rocks clanging around inside, but at least she didn’t think she’d vomit on her poorly maintained pedicure.
She wrapped the gum in a square of tissue paper and tossed it in the small gold trash can in the corner next to the vintage pedestal sink that—knowing Archer—was probably an original. He was the most annoying person she’d ever met, but he’d always had impeccable taste. No reproductions—no matter how excellent—for him.
She cupped water in her hands and rinsed her mouth, then splashed more water over her face. When she straightened again, her reflection in the oval mirror over the sink was genuinely frightening but at least her eyes didn’t look as bleary as she felt. She raked her fingers through her hair, spreading the dampness beyond her hairline, and longed for a clip or hair tie, but—like everything else in her life at the moment—no luck.
She adjusted her skirt so the vent was once more in the back where it belonged and tucked in her blouse. Barefoot and jacketless or not, she couldn’t very well hibernate in Archer’s elegant little powder room.
She straightened her shoulders and left the room.
He had come downstairs and was now sprawled in a leather chair, without a care in the world, coffee mug still cupped in his wide palm.
His smooth jawline of the night before was now shadowed in a golden-brown stubble and his thick, gilded hair tumbled over his forehead.
He was the most annoying man she knew and the most attractive. Still.
Didn’t it just figure?
With no small amount of relief, she spotted her oversize purse sitting on a table in the foyer and pounced on it. “Shoes?”
“God only knows.”
Her stomach churned all over again. Not because of a lost pair of shoes. But because losing them at all was just more evidence of behavior she couldn’t recall.
Her fingers were shaking as she pulled her cell phone from her purse where it was tucked in its usual pocket. The battery was nearly dead and she had a couple of dozen notifications for new messages. She ignored them as she sent a request for a rideshare. Without looking at Archer again, she went out the front door.
He had a wooden garden bench sitting on the porch beneath the wide mullioned windows of the living room. She perched on the edge of it while she dug in her purse for her
