Page 63 of Tragic (Lark Cove 3)

“The jury’s still out,” I groaned, dropping my head back into my hands.

“Breakfast will help. My cinnamon rolls aren’t magic, but they’ve been known to cure a hangover once or twice.”

My stomach growled, then churned when I caught a whiff from my underarms. “Do I have time for a quick shower?” And to brush my teeth?

“Go for it. The rolls still need about ten minutes.”

Taking my coffee cup with me, I disappeared into the bathroom, showering quickly, though my movements were all clumsy. My fingers fumbled over my bar of soap, dropping it twice, and I squirted way too much from my bottle of shampoo. There would be no working in the shop for me today. I didn’t trust myself around power tools or sharp objects.

I climbed out of the shower and swiped a towel off the hook. That towel had been on the floor yesterday, but Piper must have picked it up. I dried and wrapped it around my waist, then raked my hands through my hair as I inspected myself in the mirror.

I looked like hell. My beard was scraggly and overdue for a trim. My eyes were bloodshot and my cheeks a little green.

But things weren’t all bad. My shoulders weren’t tense and balled up at my ears. My jaw was unclenched for the first time in weeks. It wasn’t the hangover’s doing.

It was Piper’s.

Having her back in this house was settling.

I’d been a grumpy bastard ever since our dinner because I’d missed her dimpled smile. I’d missed her witty comments and knowing smirks. I’d missed the way she looked at me with those big, beautiful eyes.

I’d missed her.

The ding on the oven’s timer pulled me away from the mirror and out of the bathroom she’d cleaned this morning. I went to my bedroom and pulled on some jeans and a gray T-shirt, then walked out with my coffee mug, surveying the living room with a more careful eye.

She’d picked up in there too and wiped away the accumulated dust. Under the cinnamon roll smell, there was a hint of my furniture polish.

“You didn’t have to clean. But I appreciate it. I, uh . . . kind of let shit go these last couple of weeks.”

Piper glanced over her shoulder. “I didn’t mind.”

My mouth watered at the pan resting in front of her on the stove. It was loaded with golden-baked rolls, oozing with cinnamon and sugar. Piper was drizzling white frosting over the top.

“You went to a lot of trouble.”

She shrugged. “Not really. I’ve been wanting an excuse to make these. You’ve got a much better space to knead and roll dough than I do at the camper, so I decided to intrude on your kitchen. And since they took a while to rise, I just picked up. It wasn’t much.”

It wasn’t much? I scoffed. “You cleaned my bathroom.”

She smirked. “I had to pee. Cleaning it was necessary before I could go.”

“Sorry.” I grimaced. “And thank you. Again.”

Someday, I’d make it up to her. Someday when my head wasn’t swirling with whiskey fumes and my stomach wasn’t growling like a bear. I hadn’t eaten dinner last night, or lunch for that matter. It was no wonder I’d gotten so drunk off a half bottle of Jack.

“Want more coffee?” she asked.

“I got it.” I carried my mug to the coffee pot, filled it and looked to hers between us. “Do you need a warm-up?”

“Sure.” She smiled and pushed it closer at the same time I went to pick it up.

Our fingers brushed on the handle, sending an electric zing up my elbow. Her breath hitched and her cheeks turned rosy. But she didn’t take her hand away.

The room got blurry before disappearing around us as our hands lingered on the warm ceramic. If I took one step, she’d be in my arms. She’d fill the hole I’d been missing for two weeks.

If I took one step, we could be naked on the couch in seconds.

But before I took that one step, she slid her hand free and tucked it into an oven mitt.