Fumbled (Playbook #2)(66)

I don’t think it’s awesome. I also have no idea what is going on. But I don’t tell him that. “Yeah, dude. So awesome,” I say, trying to force as much pep as possible into my otherwise hoarse and miserable voice. “Where’s TK?”

“He’s outside.” He points through the open front door, his gap-toothed smile so wide I can see his molars. “We fixed the gate and now he’s painting it.”

“He’s what?” My eyes open wide for the first time all morning and my jaw falls to the dusty floor beneath me.

Ace just points out the open door to TK sitting on the pavement, painting the fence that’s been on my to-do list for at least a year—probably three.

And dammit, even hungover, my insides melt and I feel all the freaking feels.

I slip on my flip-flops, which never leave my entryway, and make my way to the hottest handyman on the planet.

Yup.

The entire mother-effing planet.

He’s so focused on the job at hand, he doesn’t notice me approaching, and I take my time admiring him in peace. His hair is falling out of the bun on top of his head, a few paint-coated pieces framing his paint-splattered face. And lucky for me, it’s hot outside. So the shirt he must’ve been wearing is now tucked into the back pocket of his old, holed-up jeans and his chest is glittering like freaking gold under a thin sheen of sweat.

Yum-my.

“You didn’t have to do this.” I pull his attention away from the fence. He jerks his head back and more paint splashes onto his jeans.

“I know, I wanted to.” He smiles, looking mighty proud of himself. He drops the paintbrush on the paint tray and saunters—yes, saunters, because a topless handyman with holed-up jeans and abs of steel freaking saunters—my way. “Sorry if all this noise woke you up.”

“It’s fine.” I wave him off. “I don’t know what I was thinking bringing Vonnie, Charli, Sadie, and Brynn together. They’re terrible influences. I don’t think I’ve ever been so hungover in my entire life. You probably think all I do is sleep.”

“Trust me, Sparks, that’s not what I think.” He drops his gaze and lets out an appreciative grunt. His hands follow his eyes and his fingers graze my thighs at the base of my shorts. “And if this is what you wear hungover, I’ll never complain.”

Suddenly, I don’t have a hangover anymore and I’m hyperaware that not only is my hair most likely a bird’s nest of curls crowning what I’m assuming is a mascara-stained face, I’m also standing outside in full view of my neighbors and my house full of strangers in satin cami pajamas with no bra.

Not the best look.

And apparently my nipples agree.

An embarrassing, high-pitched—and involuntary—scream shoots from my lips, drawing even more attention my way.

“Holy shit.” I cross my arms in front of my chest, turn, and run back into the house. Making the least discreet exit in the history of exits.

“You okay, Mom?” Ace asks when I come running through the living room he’s managing.

“Fine!” I throw over my shoulder as I keep running until I’m alone in my room with the door locked behind me.

“Keeping it classy,” I say to myself.

Because talking to myself seems like the natural progression of crazy I’m heading in today.

I slip off my pajamas, and if it wasn’t nearing ninety degrees already, I’d put on sweatpants and a turtleneck. But it is and my desire to hide every inch of skin is outweighed by my desire not to die of a heatstroke. I toss on a flowy sundress I found pretending I wasn’t well over the age of Forever 21’s target audience. I do, however, wear my most modest underwear in case a gust of wind teams up with everything else conspiring against me today . . . and yesterday . . . and the day before that . . .

I unlock my door and peek my head into the hallway, making sure the coast is clear before I venture out. When I deem it safe, I force my steps to slow as I tiptoe into the bathroom.

I flip on the lights, and even though I don’t want to, I look in the mirror.

My earlier assumptions about my appearance are right on point. Which sucks. I was hoping my Negative Nelly attitude would be wrong for once.

But no. I look a straight-up, hot-ass mess.

A bird’s nest is a generous description of the disaster topping my head. It’s more like a rat’s nest that’s home to eight rabid rats who spend their days fighting with one another. And my face looks like a raccoon who got pulled into the rat fight and was punched in its already black eyes, making the black eyes even worse.

I have to wash my face three times to erase all traces of mascara. And I don’t even wear much makeup!

With the faint taste of tequila still in my mouth, I double up on brushing my teeth. I make a promise to myself as I rinse in the sink never to drink again. Like ever.

Well . . . except for wine. Because it’s not really alcohol. It’s more like an adult-aimed grape juice. And grapes are my favorite fruit.

Okay.

Maybe not favorite, but they are in my top three.

Top ten.

Whatever.

I’m contemplating the benefits of concealer when a knock comes on the bathroom door.

“Yeah?”

“The security guys are done with the alarm,” Ace tells me from the hallway. “They want to show you how to work it.”