“Morning.” Suddenly, she was aware that she was not only wearing his shirt, she was in “the bed,” the only bed in the place.
“How do you feel?”
She considered the question. “Surprisingly okay. And hungry. What are you cooking that smells so good?”
“Pancakes,” he said, turning the pan off. “I figured they’d be easier on your stomach than eggs or bacon.” He set two plates on the bar dividing the tiny kitchen from the rest of the room. A stool sat on either side. “You up to joining me or you want me to bring it to you?”
“I can come there,” she said, embarrassed at how he’d been waiting on her. “You’ve done enough.” She scooted to the edge of the bed and hesitated. “Oh, man. It tastes like something died in my mouth. Yuk. I don’t suppose you have an extra toothbrush?”
“You’re in luck,” he said. “Bought a new one I haven’t opened. Under the bathroom sink.”
“Oh, good,” she said, tiptoeing toward the bathroom, ever aware she wore only his shirt. “Thank you.”
She quickly disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door. The instant she saw herself in the mirror, she about died. Her face was pale, except for the beautiful dark smudges of mascara under her eyes. Her hair was a wild nest that looked like a bird might hatch from the top. She remembered now that she’d washed her hair and not dried it. Note to self—bad idea.
She opened the cabinet and found the toothbrush. Then, a hairbrush. She sudsed up her face with some men’s brand of face soap and used moisturizer. It smelled liked Ryan, woodsy and masculine. The shirt didn’t. Next time, she wanted to wear one he’d worn first. Next time. Next time?
She grabbed the door and pulled it open, unable to bear the idea of not knowing what had happened between them. Ryan paused, about to fill two glasses with orange juice, giving her that silent, arched-brow look she’d become accustomed to.
“I don’t remember going to bed,” she said, her voice lifting more than she meant it to. “Did we…you know…sleep together?”
Leaning on the counter, he studied her. “Yes. We slept together.”
Her heart jumped wildly in her chest. They’d slept together, and she didn’t remember. How could this be? How could she forget having sex with Ryan?!
“As in, slept, Sabrina,” Ryan said, chuckling. “Just sleep. Nothing else.”
Relief washed over her before his little trick hit home. She admonished. “That was just plain evil. You know what you made me think.”
His gaze swept her body, appreciation in his eyes. “Evil is you in that shirt and me having to go to work. Come eat. Your food is getting cold. Caleb’s picking me up in half an hour. I’ll leave you my truck and my phone. Use my truck for whatever.”
She hurried to the bar stool and sat down across from him. “I can’t take your truck,” she said. “Or your phone. What if you need them? And what if I get stopped? I have no license.”
“Police report is in the truck,” he said. “That and a smile should keep you out of trouble. I’ll be working anyway. You might as well put them to use.” He claimed the seat across from her and filled the two coffee cups. “And I don’t want you to go back to your place until I can change the locks. You’ll need to get another key from whomever you rent from, though. If you can pick me up at work, we can go by and pick up your car—the dealership can get you a key—and then head to your place to change the locks.”
“Ryan,” she argued. “I can’t ask you to do all of this.”
“You don’t have to ask,” he said. “That’s what friends are for.”
“Friends,” she said uncomfortably. Had last night scared him away from more? “Is that what we are?”
“Yeah,” he said. “We’re friends.” He gave her a crooked smiled. “Friends with benefits. And don’t you forget it.”
“I won’t forget, if you don’t,” she said tentatively, thinking of the turbulence between them yet to be fully resolved.
His eyes twinkled. “You can remind me tonight.”
Tonight. She smiled at that; the idea of actually sleeping with Ryan and remembering it was a good one. They ate then, the news playing in the background. Sabrina shocked herself by putting down four pancakes, orange juice and coffee. Ryan managed double that and said he was still hungry.
They were almost finished when a news story caught her ear. Sabrina grabbed the remote sitting on the bar between them and turned up the volume as the newscaster reported, “Sources near the mayor say the wife of the deceased soldier visited his office after hours, a week before the soldier died. The mayor calls the claim absolutely false, and meant to stir headlines.”
She should have known the story would get out before she had time to finish investigating. Frank was going to be furious. “That’s the soldier I wrote that article about,” she told Ryan, “the one I thought might be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder—”