Fuck.
Last night I picked bourbon. I should have picked tequila.
I pulled myself out of bed then I lugged myself down the hall to the bathroom. I used the facilities, washed my face, brushed my teeth, downed numerous gulps of water cupped in my hand and was walking out when I heard the front door open and close.
Right. Well then. There it was.
God did not answer my prayers and made yesterday a bad dream like that whole season of Dallas where Bobby was dead and then, poof, the next season he’s in the shower.
It would appear that, yesterday, Tucker Creed actually did come back into my life, I agreed to partner up with him then ended the evening eating his food and f**king him.
Shit.
Great.
I wandered into the living room, through the entry and rounded the wall into the dining room.
There I saw a bakery box on the counter and a hot guy behind it with a small raised bruise on his cheekbone, an angry bite mark on his neck, a white, paper coffee cup in one hand, and, to my expert donut discerning eye, a Boston cream in the other.
His assessing eyes came to me. “Mornin’.”
“Guh,” I mumbled and ignored his quick grin by looking down at my cat, who had her face in her food bowl.
I stopped and stared. Hard.
Gun felt it and looked up at me.
“Meow,” she defended herself and she had a right. She was a cat. Food was food whoever gave it to you.
Still, I returned, “Traitor.”
I heard a chuckle, my eyes cut to Creed then down to the big box and I continued wandering his way, asking, “Did you buy donuts for the whole block in an effort to get your partner close in order to have dozens more reasons to keep me not dead?”
“No, I bought enough donuts to make Charlene and her kids happy for a morning.”
Shit, they were going to love that. These days, donuts did it for them. Then again, they were the kind of family, simple pleasures always did. Save Dan, the Douchebag, of course.
I stopped opposite the counter and looked back up at him. “Have I told you you’re an ass**le today?”
“You just got up, so no.”
“You’re an ass**le.”
He grinned again.
I threw open the baker’s box and plucked out a glazed. I usually went for the fancy, complicated donuts. It was feeling like a glazed day.
I bit into it and looked back at Creed, saying through sugar and fried dough, “Coffee?”
He scooted a white paper cup across the counter toward me.
I picked it up, sipped and closed my eyes.
Ah, good.
“What was that about me bein’ an ass**le?” Creed asked.
I opened my eyes but only to narrow them on him.