Page 9 of Screwed
Cash liked the idea of a birthday party for his mom. He’d talk to Ginnie and maybe to Mom’s friends Barb and Eleanor. Between them they should be able to come up with a plan and a guest list.
“But just a nice dinner with you and Ginnie would be lovely. If she could come home for a weekend. Maybe we could meet the new boyfriend.”
“Great idea.” Yeah, he’d want to check out this dude if Ginnie was seriously into him. “Okay. That’s fixed. Anything else you need done?”
“There is one more thing. I bought a new set of shelves for the laundry room, and I started trying to put them together, but I got so frustrated I gave up.”
There was always something else. But he didn’t mind.
It took him an hour to get the shelves put together and set up in the little laundry room. “You want me to get rid of these?” He indicated the old shelves she’d taken down from the walls.
“Oh, if you could, that would be great.”
“Sure. I have my truck.” He carted the shelves down and dumped them in the back of the truck. “Okay, Mama, I have to get going.”
“Where are you off to now? Please tell me you’re not going to work.”
“No. I’m going over to Callie’s.”
“Oh?” Her eyes lit up with curiosity.
“She kind of tied one on last night celebrating her divorce.” He grimaced. “Just gonna check on her.”
“Mmm. I see.”
“We’re just friends.”
“I know.” She held up her hands.
“Call me if you need anything.”
“I will. Thank you, Cash. You come for dinner one night next week, okay?”
“If you’ll make your pot roast.” He grinned.
She smiled, too. “I can do that.”
After he left Mama’s place, he headed to Callie’s, mentally kicking his own ass the whole time. People survived hangovers, for chrissakes, he didn’t need to be so worried about her.
He made one stop on the way there, then rang the doorbell at nearly noon. She should be up.
She answered the door moments later, yep, looking a little pale. Still gorgeous, of course. She couldn’t be anything but. Even with her damp hair pulled up into a messy bun with pieces hanging out of it around her face, shadows hugging her lower eyelids, and a smudge of something white on one high cheekbone, she was beautiful.
“Cash. What are you doing here?” Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. Please come in.”
He held out the bag. “Here. I picked up chicken and biscuits and sweet tea from Mama Maybelle’s. Everyone knows that’s the best hangover cure there is.”
“Oh, bless your heart!” She reached eagerly for the bag. “I need this so bad.”
“I figured.” He gave her a wry smile as he walked in. “Thought I should check on you. You were pretty blasted last night.”
Not only had she been drunk, she’d been crying. He fucking hated Callie crying.
She touched a hand to her temple and let out a sigh. “I hope I didn’t do anything too embarrassing.”
“Memory’s a little fuzzy?” He followed her into the big, bright kitchen, his eyes dropping to her ass in snug black yoga pants as she rounded the big island. The kitchen was huge and white, with a mile-long counter along one wall, big windows overlooking the ravine and bayou across the back wall, and a large white marble-topped island in the middle. He took in all the clutter on the island—not one buttwohuge KitchenAid mixers, big bowls, bags of flour and sugar, some of it dusted across the marble, an open carton of eggs, and bricks of butter. Callie loved to bake, although why she was whipping up what appeared to be a dozen cakes when she lived alone was a puzzle.
“Um, yeah.” She set the paper bag on the island and peered at him. “Did you bring me home last night?”
