In Your Dreams (Blue Heron #4)(60)

Ah. She seemed to be in the throes of sappy gazing. Clearing her throat, she looked down at the rumpled sheets. “Hungry?” she asked.

“Starving.” He reached out and, very slowly, pulled the tie of her robe.

“There’s still some cake,” she whispered.

“I wasn’t talking about cake,” he said, his voice deep and rumbly, and her girl parts gave a hot, sudden throb. “But now that you mention it...” And with one quick move, he had her on his lap, robe open, and proceeded to feed her bites of cake in exchange for kisses. He took his time, sliding his hands over her as if he’d never touched a woman before, licking chocolate off her lips, and damn if it didn’t work.

Very well.

Very well indeed.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

YOU KNOW THAT expression, the cold light of day?

Yeah.

For the first few seconds that Emmaline pried her left eye open, she wasn’t sure why she was suddenly filled with dread. Hangover? No, no, she didn’t feel terrible at all. In fact, she felt pretty...

And then she remembered, and regret and ruination rained down around her.

Shit and grilled cheese.

She’d slept with Jack. Slept with in all connotations, because not only had they had sex, he was dead asleep next to her.

She bolted out of bed, then, abruptly aware that she was naked, grabbed the bedspread and wrapped it around her.

“What’s the matter? What’s wrong? Who’s dead?” Jack blurted, lurching upright. His hair was adorably mussed, and the muscles of his arms slid and bunched and—

“Nothing’s wrong. Nothing.” She looked away from the golden glory that was her bedmate. “It’s—I have to pack. It’s late. We have to leave in half an hour. We overslept.”

“Emmaline—”

“Move it, Jack. Go pack.”

Nice, said her brain. Very tender.

“I’m already packed,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Well, I have to pack, so git.”

“You can’t pack in front of me?”

“No, I can’t. So go shower and shave and eat something. Get out. I—I have to brush my teeth.” And put on clothes. Fast.

She hustled to the bathroom, grabbing her suitcase on the way.

This. Had been. A mistake.

Pity fu— Okay, not that. Too ugly a term. Courtesy copulation, is that better? Yep. Jack Holland, god of Manningsport, had done her because she’d been in the throes of the most pathetic moment of all pathetic moments. Jilted single woman, desperate to feel attractive, drinks homemade vodka with Russians and overdoses on Skittles.

Well, maybe the homemade vodka and Skittles were unique, but otherwise, no.

All those thoughts that Emmaline had ignored in the loo last night were making themselves heard now in a very bossy and disappointed tone. Things about sleeping with someone for the sake of sleeping with someone. About going easy on vodka and wine. So what if the resort stocked condoms in the night table drawer? That wasn’t carte blanche to go cartwheeling through Horny Land, was it? No. It was not.

She yanked her hair into a ponytail, took a marine-fast shower and pulled on her clothes with angry jerks.

Stupid, slutty, stupid. And wrong. She had used Jack for sex. Oh, sure, he didn’t hate it—he was a guy, and it was sex. But here was a man dealing with some serious issues back home, not to mention an ex-wife looking for a reconciliation. He’d come here out of the goodness of his heart, and Em had done something that made her cringe.

She made him feel sorry for her.

A knock sounded on the door, and Em jumped. “What?” she demanded.

“Open the door and talk to me.”

She opened the door. “Yeah. Listen. Last night was...thank you. Job well done.” Automatically, she reached for her gun.

“You gonna shoot me?” he asked.

“Oh. Sorry.” She put it back in the suitcase.

“Why do you even have that?”

“Because I’m a law enforcement officer, and I can bring it if I want to.” She closed her eyes briefly. “We really do have to hurry.”

“You can give me two minutes. Are you freaking out because we slept together?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Bad idea, fun time. Just...” A frustrated growl came from her throat. “It’s just I don’t want a relationship right now.”

“Fine. That’ll be four hundred dollars, then.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You were worth at least a thousand.”

“Wow.”

She winced. “Jack, look, I’m sorry. You’re a nice guy.”

“I’m so tired of people saying that.”

“Okay, you’re not. You’re horrible.”

His mouth tugged on one side, and Em’s uterus responded in kind. Slut. She was a slut.

She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her shorts. “I imagine that you, being a very nice though horrible guy, want to be chivalrous and ask me out because your image of yourself doesn’t have one-night stands. Plus, you have sisters and a niece you wouldn’t want them to have a one-nighter with someone. I can’t say that I’m the one-night-stand kind myself. But let’s not go there. Let’s just chock this up to a very brief vacation fling and never speak of it again, okay?”