3. Denny

3

DENNY

T he tile was cold and unforgiving on my knees, the light was blinding, and my stomach was extremely unhappy with me.

I wiped sweat from my brow and gingerly crouched on my heels, afraid to move and start the cycle again. Every time I thought the worst was over, I ended up racing to the toilet to puke my guts out. I did feel better than I had earlier, though. At least that was something.

Was this really tequila's fault? Had I eaten last night? Had I eaten something bad? I couldn't remember.

My mind was fuzzy as fuck. I couldn't think while my stomach was churning, but I was beginning to register that nothing was familiar. This wasn't my bathroom or Grams's or MK's or Niall's or — Shit. Where am I?

I licked my dry lips, clutching the counter as I slowly…oh, so slowly…stood, squinting at my reflection.

Geez, I looked like hell's newest arrival. My face was ghostly pale, and my hair could have doubled as a bird's nest. I washed my hands and splashed water on my cheeks, begging my brain to cooperate so I could think.

I'd met my friends at the bar. It had been fun and nice to see everyone. MK had seemed good and?—

Knock knock

"You okay in there?"

I froze.

Oh. Fuck.

"Uh, yeah. All good. Thanks," I rasped.

"Can I come in?"

"Just a sec." I dried my hands on the towel, yanking it off the bar and wrapping it around my waist.

I never slept naked, and that was just one of the mysteries piling up. I wildly scanned the bathroom for clues, zeroing in on the unzipped leather toiletry bag at the far end of the counter. Not mine, but it belonged to a man for sure. I snooped for a prescription bottle or something with a name, sighing at the lack of helpful evidence. There was nothing here but toothpaste, deodorant, and fancy-looking cologne that smelled like?—

The cowboy .

Oh, wow . If something sexy had happened between us and I couldn't fucking remember, I was going to be seriously pissed at the universe. I examined my reflection for hickeys or bite marks or anything conclusive.

Had we fucked? No, there was no way I'd have forgotten that. And my ass didn't hurt. Maybe I'd fucked him and maybe I'd been a terrible lay. Or maybe?—

"Denny?"

"Hang on."

I stole a smidge of toothpaste and finger-brushed my teeth, rinsing my mouth and gargling till I felt as if I could communicate without singeing anyone's eyebrows off.

I didn't feel even halfway human, but I couldn't put off the reckoning any longer.

So I opened the door, stepped out, and…there he was, sleep-rumpled with messy hair, a pillow crease on his stubbled cheek, sleepy eyes, and a hesitant smile.

He stepped around me to use the bathroom, closing the door behind him and leaving me to process puzzle pieces and make sense of my current situation.

His name was…Hank.

Hank.

Good. And I'd met him at the bar. No, in the parking lot. He'd had a proposition. I'd followed him upstairs and he'd given me a water bottle, and?—

Oh, fuck. I think I propositioned him.

Ew.

I was a lowly, gross worm. The worst of the worst.

"How are you feeling?" Hank asked, joining me in the room a few minutes later.

He poured water into the coffeemaker on the dresser and fussed with the complimentary cups, glancing over at me expectantly.

"Uh, bad. Very bad," I admitted, rubbing my nape as I finally met his gaze. "I don't know how to apologize."

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "We've all been there a time or two."

"Not me. Not like that. I almost feel like I was drugged or?—"

"I did not drug you," he interrupted sharply.

I held up a hand, nodding slightly to preserve the integrity of my gray matter. "I know. I know. Unfortunately, it's all coming back to me, and I remember almost everything. I don't think embarrassed is a strong enough word."

Hank's lips twitched with humor. "You were kind of funny."

"Doubtful. Did you hold my hair while I…" I couldn't finish that sentence. It was too mortifying.

He nodded.

Oh. My. God.

"Do you take sugar or cream in your coffee?" Hank asked as if this wasn't a weird-ass way to start the day.

"Just black is good."

"Here you go."

I thanked him for the coffee and sat on the edge of the mattress, briefly thinking it was inappropriate to sit on someone's bed uninvited. But maybe the rules changed if you'd staged an unintentional takeover. I winced at the lumpy pillow and the thin blanket strewn over the nearby sofa. He'd probably slept with his long legs flung over the armrest. Poor bastard.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am. I'll pay for your room and?—"

Hank sat at the desk chair, scooting it to face me. "That's not necessary."

"I took your bed," I scoffed, cradling the cup in my hands like a wounded bird. I didn't know a nice way to ask, but I had to know. "I see that you slept on the sofa, but…did we do anything?"

He narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You're going to make me say it," I grumbled, sipping a fortifying gulp of coffee before blurting, "Did we…you know?"

Hank pursed his lips in amusement. "No, we did not."

"Right. I didn't think so," I bluffed. "I have another embarrassing question."

He made a flourishing gesture. "Please continue."

"Did I…" Ugh , this was even more painful. "Did I come on to you?"

"Yes."

I squeezed my eyes shut. "Oh, crap. I'm so?—"

"Cool it. You've already apologized. It's fine."

"Not really. I'm naked under this towel. How'd that happen?"

Hank snort-laughed. "You sure you want to know?"

"No, I don't want to know, but yes…tell me."

"You stripped, then passed out on my bed." He paused at my loud groan of dismay and added, "I couldn't wake you up, and I didn't know who to call. I considered going downstairs to the bar, but I didn't know how to explain this, and I wasn't sure who you trusted, so…here we are."

"That's pretty awful. Thank you for letting me stay. You have no idea how big a scene that would have caused. People talk in this town, and I've never been drunk in public." I eyed him over the rim of my cup. "I'd appreciate it if we could forget last night. Forget we met and erase every weird and unfortunate thing that popped out of my mouth from your brain. Please."

"No problem."

My shoulders sagged in relief. "Thank you. You're very cool. I don't know how to make this right, but I can get you game tickets if you want. Are you a hockey fan?"

"I am, but…I have season tickets. I'm covered. Thanks."

"Oh. Well, I'll take care of the hotel room for sure, and I can leave you some money for?—"

"The room is paid for and I don't want your money, Denny." The look in his eyes indicated that he wanted something, though.

"What do you want?" I swallowed hard. "Oh, uh, did you change your mind? Do you want…sex?"

Hank barked a laugh. "For fuck's sake, no. I don't want sex. Like I told you last night, I don't use sex as a bartering tool, and I'm too old for you anyway. What are you…twenty-two?"

I frowned. "Yeah, how old are you?"

"Twenty-nine."

"You're not that old. But if you're not interested, that's fine. Just say so. No…" I pinched my nose and tried again. "I didn't mean that. I'm not interested either."

"You were last night," he teased.

"I wasn't in my right mind."

"Understood."

I sipped my coffee, feeling smaller by the second. "Since I came on to you and made a total fool of myself, I guess you know that I'm…"

"Bi?"

"I'm not out, though."

Hank inclined his chin. "I know."

"Did I tell you that last night?" I wrinkled my nose in distaste.

"No, it was a guess. Don't worry…I won't say a word."

We shared a smile, but his didn't have the "Thank God that's over, let's move on" spark I was hoping for.

"What's the catch?"

Hank set his cup on the desk. "There's no catch."

"But…" I prompted.

"I could use your help."

I hung my head and released a theatric gush of air. "So this is what extortion feels like."

He snorted. "I have no mal intent whatsoever. I don't want money, hockey tickets, or ten seconds worth of fame. However, I would like ten minutes of your time to convince you to do a commercial and an ad campaign for the mill."

"A commercial," I repeated, adding in a confused tone, " That was your proposition. I sort of remember now."

"Yes, I would normally go through your agent, but he hasn't answered our calls. In a way, I get it. We're a family-owned business based in Denver, and it's hard to make wood sound sexy without being crass." Hank gave a sophomoric grin, adding, "We'll pay you, of course, and?—"

"No, I'm sorry, but…I can't."

I slid my cup next to his on the desk and sheepishly stalked over to the pile of clothes he'd probably folded for me after I'd performed a drunken striptease.

Yeah, it was all coming back to me, and the shame was real.

I wriggled my boxer briefs on under the towel, let it drop, and then finished getting dressed.

Hank sighed heavily. "It wouldn't take much of your time. A couple of hours, tops. We're a solid company with?—"

"Doesn't matter," I intercepted. "It wouldn't work. I can't—I can't talk to people."

"We're talking right now."

"Yeah, I know, and it's weird. Maybe that's because last night happened, and I feel like I know you better than I should. But new day, old me. I play hockey. That's it. I don't do commercials, and I avoid talking to the public whenever possible." I pulled my socks on and shoved my feet into my shoes. "Honestly, it would have been easier if you'd just wanted to have sex."

Hank's eyebrows shot to his hairline. "That would be extremely unprofessional, not to mention morally suspect on my part."

"Yeah, yeah. But easy. In and out, one and done. No drama." I slipped my jacket on as I moved toward the door. "You're hot, you're nice, you have a cowboy hat…"

He followed me. Of course, he did. "A cowboy hat? What does that have to do with anything?"

"I like cowboy hats," I said defensively.

"Yeah, you mentioned that last night. More than once."

"It's not weird. I like 'em on girls too."

"Good to know, but I'm more curious that you'd seemingly rather have sex with a stranger than learn a few lines for an ad campaign. Or did I get that wrong?"

"No, you're correct."

Hank regarded me like a bug under microscope. "Guide me through the thought process on that one, please."

"My inhibitions were compromised last night. If the chemistry and the timing was right, maybe something sexy would have happened…if you'd been interested." I shrugged impotently. "But I admit, it's weird in the daylight. I don't know anything about you. You could be happily married with a beautiful family, cats and dogs. Oh, fuck. Please, please, please tell me you don't have a wife and kids."

He barked a laugh. "Geez, no. I'm not married."

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"I'm single…and gay," he confirmed. "Which means less than nothing here. You and I were never going to have sex."

I rolled my eyes. "My point stands, though—sex is easy. I'm assuming it would be easy with a guy too. I've never done that. I'm definitely interested, but wow…I shouldn't have said that. Don't quote me. And this is why I can't talk. Talking is hard."

"And yet he's still talking," Hank snarked.

He was right. If I kept this up I'd be out of words before noon. "Look, I know you got more than you bargained for last night and maybe I owe you that ten minutes, but it would be a failure. Trust me, you don't want me. You'll have to think of another form of payment."

"Okay, be my friend."

"Huh?"

"You owe me one, so…be my friend," he replied. "For six months. Then we'll be even."

I repeated his new proposition in a measured, even tone as if testing the words to see if they made sense. They didn't.

"Be your friend. How? Your family owns the mill in Wood Hollow. No offense, dude, but I don't see us being business associates, let alone friends. We don't like the kind of change that involves losing our forest to make way for new construction in Elmwood. I appreciate that you're providing job opportunities, but it's a double-edged sword."

Hank nodded. "Exactly. That's why I need you."

"Oh. I get it. You need me to make you…likable."

"That's one way to put it. Yes. And that's how you can pay me back for last night," he intercepted, resting his shoulder on the door. "Forget the ad for now, and just…be my new best buddy."

"What does that even mean? I can't pretend to be friends with someone I threw myself at…and vomited in front of. As soon as I walk away, I'm going to do my very best to forget I know your name."

"That's not going to happen," he insisted obstinately.

"It will. If I were you, I'd take the hockey tickets and sell them to the highest bidder."

He unlocked the door and twisted the knob. "I'm not doing that. Look, I'm exhausted, and I'm sure you are too. I'll be at the game next weekend in Denver. Let's meet up afterward."

I shook my head, glancing both ways in the empty corridor before stepping out. "No."

Hank cast his eyes skyward as if seeking celestial intervention. "Fine, let's play it your way. I'm officially extorting you."

"How does that work?"

"I don't know. I'm new at bribery and extortion, but I guess I could use the selfie we took last night and post it everywhere."

"That was my cell, not yours."

"Yeah, but I sneaked one too. For posterity." He shrugged nonchalantly.

I blinked. "You're joking."

"Am I?"

He was bluffing. He had to be. I didn't completely trust my memory, but I was pretty sure I was the one who'd taken the pic.

"I…"

Hank raised his hands in surrender and sighed. "Just give me an hour of your time in Denver next weekend. You owe me, and that's what I want. We'll talk when we're both coherent. If you say no, I'll leave it alone. Promise."

I narrowed my eyes. Meeting up with him didn't sound terrible now, but it might later.

Still, he'd been pretty cool about last night, so…

"Okay…maybe."

"I'll take a maybe." We exchanged contact info and yes, he double-checked to be sure I hadn't given him a bogus number. "Let me get my jacket. I'll give you a ride."

"No, I'll walk. Thanks, but you're hard to explain."

Hank's wolfish smile made my cock twitch in my jeans. "Got it. I'll see you next week, Denny."

He closed the door in my face. Smart move. I was about to change my answer, but I definitely wasn't going to make a scene in the hallway at the Black Horse Inn at too-fucking-early a.m. I had to get out of here. Stat. I'd worry about the cowboy later.

"You look like shit. Good for you."

I scowled. "Why would looking terrible be good for me?"

Grams shuffled to the kitchen table, her bony fingers clutching the handle of an orange juice pitcher for dear life. "It means you had some fun."

I put my hand over the empty glass my grandmother was attempting to fill. "No, thanks. I'm fine with coffee."

Her arm trembled as she set the container on the table, then slid onto the chair next to mine. "Tell me all about it."

Uh, no way.

"I had too much to drink. That's all."

"And…?" she prompted, pulling a cigarette and lighter from her pocket.

Oh, boy. Grams was in storyteller mode—entertaining unless you were the subject of the story. Things could get embarrassing very quickly. It was almost more concerning than her smoking habit. She'd definitely cut back on cigarettes over the past couple of years, but I doubted she'd ever give them up completely.

First of all, she was eighty-seven. Grams liked to tell anyone who'd listen that she had no plans to live to a hundred and she was going out on her terms. If she wanted to smoke, drink, and eat maple cookies every damn day from now till she punched in her time card on planet Earth, she'd damn well do so. And yes, those were her exact words.

Things to know about Annie Calhoun Mellon: She was five foot nothing with a cloud of white hair and a birdlike frame. She claimed her brilliant blue eyes and high cheekbones were her finest features as a young woman.

I'd seen photos of Grams in youth, and she wasn't exaggerating. She'd been a truly beautiful woman in her day. She could have been a model or a movie star, or maybe just married a rich man and lived part-time on a tropical island, sipping cocktails under an umbrella while devouring romance novels one after the other.

"You know what happened to me, Denny? I married for love. What an idiot! Yeah, yeah, I'd do it all over again, but it's a sucker move if ever there was one. Grandpa and I never had a dime to our names. We couldn't afford a nice house or fancy vacations. I had to work at the bakery to put food on the table, and I was one of the only women in town who had a job in those days. Folks didn't approve. Hell, family didn't approve either. Your great-grandmother and my monster-in-law—bless her evil soul—hated me. She wanted me to beg for money to support my children, and you know what I said? I said fuck that, fuck you, and fuck the high horse you rode into town on."

I'd gasped at the idea. "You did?"

"Not to her face. I have some fuckin' class, you know."

Yep, that was my grandmother.

She pulled no punches. If she'd ever had a filter, it had been faulty for years and was pretty much gone now. If she thought it, she said it. No in between. Grams was spry, smart as a whip, and she had the biggest heart in the world. She just didn't want anyone to know. But I knew.

Grams had opened her home to me when I was fifteen. I'd had no real options at the time. My dad had died, Mom had been in rehab, and my brother in college. I'd been sure I'd hate it here and that I'd hate living with an old lady I barely knew, but she changed my life.

Seven years later, I owed her…everything, and she wanted nothing in return. She'd owned her house for years, didn't drive—thank God—rotated her favorite cardigans, and had no desire to travel anymore. I caught on that the only thing Grams wanted was for me to come by once in a while. So I'd bought the house next door to hers, and I did my best to visit regularly.

Even if it was just for a night. Like this trip.

It was no hardship. I loved her and loved hanging out with her…even if she busted my balls, looking for a story I definitely didn't want to share.

"Nothing happened last night," I lied.

"Bullshit." She lit her cigarette and inhaled, eyes twinkling mischievously as he exhaled. "You walked home and let yourself in your front door at 6:20 a.m. Mary-Kate dropped your truck off at 8:39 on her way to the rink, which means you weren't with her. From this information, I deduct the following…you got shitfaced, slept on someone's sofa…or bed. Who is she? You can tell me anything. No reason to pretend you and MK are still lovebirds with me. I know love when I see it and you're…well, it's not love."

I was in no shape to outmaneuver Grams's PI-style interrogation. My hangover had a hangover. My headache had eased to a steady throb and my stomach didn't object to coffee, but my brain was mush and weird things ached…like my hair and my eyelids. I couldn't believe I had to get on a plane like this.

"I didn't sleep on a sofa," I said, sipping my lukewarm coffee.

"Ah-ha! Now we're cooking with gasoline. Who's the new girl? Is it Penny's niece? The one with the small tits and a big smile?"

I choked on my coffee. "Jesus, Grams. No, I'm not seeing anyone else."

" Hmph . Well…then where were you? Don't spin a yarn, kiddo. I was listening at the screen door like a proper snoop when you were talking to Mary-Kate. I heard all the good parts. She left early last night and you stayed, but you weren't with the boys."

"How do you know that?"

"I ran into Niall at the bakery this morning and he told me you had a few too many, but not to worry 'cause Mary-Kate took good care of you." She took another drag, arching one brow as she stamped out her cigarette. "So…what's the deal? You can tell me anything. I'll confuse it with another story by tomorrow anyway."

Not true at all. She was sharp as fuck.

"I don't want to tell you. It's embarrassing," I admitted.

"Oh! That's my favorite kind of story. Feel free to embellish. Your idea of embarrassing is cute."

I barked a laugh. "Okay, I recognized the guy who runs the mill from Denver. We were talking outside but I was drunk and thirsty and I didn't want to go back to the bar, so I had water in his hotel room…and passed out."

Grams frowned. "You passed out?"

"Yeah, I told you, it's embarrassing. One minute, I was fine and the next…not so much."

"That's not like you at all. I saw a Dateline episode about scumbags putting drugs in drinks. They get you at your most vulnerable, take photos, and bribe you to keep them out of social media. And does this so-and-so know you play professional hockey?"

"Sure, but?—"

She gasped theatrically. "Who is this fucker? Let's get him. I'll call Bud. We'll get the police to swarm his room and?—"

"Whoa! Hold up. He didn't do anything wrong, Grams. That was me."

"Oh. Did he take pictures?" she asked, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"No." To be determined , I amended to myself.

" Hmm . Well, what the hell is wrong with you?" Grams stood abruptly and swatted me upside the head.

"Ow."

"Drinking too much, passing out, crawling home like a zombie…you're old enough to know better than to give the wheel to Jim Beam or Johnnie Walker, for fuck's sake."

"It was Jose Cuervo."

"Jose's a real schmeckle too. The world is full of 'em. You gotta be on your guard. I can't do it for you. Believe it or not, I'm not going to be around forever. I'm on what you call borrowed time, Den. Don't make me blow it worrying about you landing on the front page of the Forest Tribune in your damn birthday suit."

"I'm pretty sure they wouldn't publish a naked pic in the Tribune ," I said gently, patting the chair she'd abandoned in her tirade. "And don't start up with the borrowed time stuff. You're going to live forever. You're too mean to die, remember?"

I added that last line 'cause it always made her smile and I really didn't want to think deep, scary thoughts involving a world without Annie Mellon. Not now.

Grams toddled over and took her seat, surprising me when she grasped my wrist in a firm grip. "I got 'em fooled, Den. I'm not as mean as I used to be. I had my hand raised in case God was looking for any volunteers to cut the line to the pearly gates…until you came along and gave me a reason to stick it out. I intend to be here for as long as possible just to make sure you end up okay. Either that or I will haunt your ass from here to eternity, so work with me and don't do anything stupid. For my sake…please."

Okay, I think that was a guilt trip, but don't quote me. I wasn't in the best mental shape.

"I was a little stupid last night, but it's nothing to worry about."

She rolled her eyes. "Tell that to my ulcer, my arthritis, my bursitis, and my aching back."

I hid an indulgent grin, relieved she'd moved on to her cranky old lady routine. It was better than dwelling over the ugly facts of life.

I wanted to preserve this moment in bubble wrap and revisit it again in ten years, twenty years, thirty years—minus the hangover. The smell of coffee, cigarette smoke, and Dior perfume, the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the ancient cuckoo clock over the kitchen sink. I wanted to memorize every wrinkle in my grandmother's face…the crow's feet she claimed she'd had since she was twenty-one, the laugh lines around her mouth, and the loose skin under her chin. I wanted to remember her smoke-tinged voice and the girlish tone she took when she spoke of my grandfather.

I didn't like the idea of her being reduced to memories, but if I ever had kids, I'd want them to know how amazing it felt to sit in this kitchen and know you mattered more than life itself to my grandmother. Daunting too.

Grams was larger than life. It was kind of remarkable that someone so tiny and seemingly fragile could fill a room the way she did. I felt a strong sense of duty to honor her, and last night had been an utter failure.

"Hey, Grams? I'm fine. Just…hungover and embarrassed. Let's keep this between us."

She twisted her lips and huffed. "Who would I tell?"

"Elmwood. If you mention this to Penny at the bakery, she'll tell Ivan at the coffee shop, and he'll accidentally pass it along to JC or Nolan at the diner…or maybe he'll slip in front of Mary-Kate, who'll wonder why I hadn't gone back to the bar and?—"

"I won't say word. Girl Scout's honor," she assured me, flashing a peace sign.

"Were you ever a Girl Scout?" I asked suspiciously.

"Yes. For three days. I got kicked out for changing the lyrics to some goody-two-shoes line in one of their songs. What a crock. I couldn't in good conscience sing a bullshit song about being best friends forever while sitting next to Kath Woodrow. Evil demon. She put a spider in my lunch box and told Dale Kittridge I had a hole in my underwear. I know what you're thinking. She's a sweet little old lady now, but she was a little shit eighty years ago. I'd trip her on Main Street if I thought I could get away with it."

I barked a laugh. "Don't trip Mrs. O'Neil, Grams. And please don't repeat anything I told you."

She made a zipped-lips motion and changed the subject. Phew ! It was almost time to return to my regularly scheduled life in Denver, and I didn't want to end my weekend on a low note.

Mistakes were lessons that occasionally came with price tags, like hangovers from hell and cloudy memories of flirting with a sexy cowboy.

Cue my fifteenth round of embarrassment shivers. If the universe gave even the smallest shit about me, my head would miraculously not feel like the human equivalent of a bowling ball attached to a cornstalk and better still…Hank Cunningham would develop a sudden case of amnesia and forget he'd ever met me.