The Sweetest September

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_c3f8f25e-be5a-59ae-a82b-66d87e78c9c2)

SHELBY MACKEY HAD experienced a lot of bad sex in her lifetime, but she’d never made a man cry.

Sitting on the sink of a run-down bathroom in some Louisiana hole-in-the-wall grocery store/bait stand/bar, she focused on the man in front of her, who was breathing hard and blinking away honest-to-God tears. The yellow glow of the naked lightbulb over his left shoulder kept bobbing...or maybe it didn’t. After all, she’d had two glasses of wine before moving on to gin and tonics. Shelby couldn’t remember how many of those drinks the tall stranger had bought her, but they likely were responsible for the disgusting bathroom spinning.

He had dark hair—a sort of brownish-red that a poet might describe as a sunset sinking into the horizon. But he’d covered the rusty-brown with a well-worn cowboy hat. That damn cowboy hat had made her lose every inkling of good sense she had.

Or maybe the five—or six—drinks had done that.

Whichever.

Results were the same—she teetered on a chipped sink, her panties nowhere in sight.

A faded country ballad still played in the background, and as she watched the man grapple with what they’d done against the bathroom sink, she noted he had a thin white scar along his chiseled jawline.

The sex hadn’t been bad. But not good, either. Sort of desperate and fast. Shelby hadn’t cared, because for a brief moment she’d felt desired. And being wanted had been way more powerful than even the deadly combination of cowboy hat and booze.

Green eyes looked down at her, swimming with a flurry of emotions—a sort of “oh, hell, look what we just did.” She released the fists she’d knotted in his simple white button-down shirt and slid to the linoleum.

“Wow,” she muttered, which was totally inaccurate. Not wow at all. She tugged her cashmere sweater over the bra he’d not even managed to unhook and gave him an embarrassed smile.

No. This wasn’t awkward.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked like she’d smacked him in the head with a baseball bat. Mechanically, he turned, dealing with the absurd pink condom she’d handed him minutes earlier. He tossed the wadded napkin in the waste bin and stayed with his back to her.

“Uh, you okay?” she asked, looking for her pesky watermelon-pink panties he’d tossed...somewhere.

Shaking his head, he said, “Oh, God.”

“What? Are you okay?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done this.”

Jeez. He apologized like he’d just tossed his cookies on her grandmother’s wedding china. Or like he’d accidentally stepped on a kitten. Or tracked dog shit in the house. Like it was...something bad.

He spun and his eyes reflected anguish.

“You don’t have to apologize,” she said, trying on another smile, pretending like this wasn’t what it was—a guy apologizing for having sex with her. “But if you can help me find my panties?”

If anything, he grew even paler at the suggestion. Wild-eyed, he glanced around. “We’re in a bathroom.”

“Ding. You’re correct,” she said with a decided slur. Gin did that to her. Okay, gin did that to everyone.

She didn’t want to look back at him. Didn’t want to see the despair and guilt in his eyes. He regretted this whole thing. Wished he hadn’t gotten wasted and agreed to help her in the bathroom, which she’d made code word for screwing me against the lavatory. It was almost as if...her gaze flew to his left hand.

“Oh, crap.” She grabbed the tanned hand with the noticeable white stripe on the ring finger. She hadn’t noticed it in the dark bar, but could see very well in the blinding reality of the ladies’ bathroom. “You’re married?”

He glanced at the hand she held in hers and jerked it away, using it to tug up worn jeans that still gaped. The sound of his zipper was deafening. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes and exhaled. “Not anymore.”

He opened those pretty eyes and their gazes met. A sheen of tears remained, but there was more—sadness over the words he’d just uttered. The regret made Shelby feel even worse. Head swimming, gut rolling, she stepped away and spied her panties hanging on the paper towel dispenser over his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again.

Shelby ignored her panties and instead turned away from him. The water came out of the faucet ice-cold. Why had she turned on the water? No clue. She needed something to do, something to prevent her from telling—oh, cripes, what was his name again? Josh? Joe? Did it even matter?

Shelby stuck her shaking hands under the water and splashed her face, not even caring that it would make her mascara run. She didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to see the utter abhorrence for her and for what they’d drunkenly done.

After the past few days, she felt close to losing it. Close to doing something like...screwing a stranger?

Too late, sister.

The sound of music roared into the bathroom before muted silence fell again.

Well, hell.

He’d left. Just flippin’ walked out after an apology she didn’t even want.

What an ass.

Shelby looked at herself in the speckled mirror and tried hard not to let her tears join the water coursing down her face. Not only had she impulsively gotten drunk and laid, but the guy she’d chosen for such an honor hadn’t even bothered to stick around and buy her a drink for her trouble.

Not that she needed another drink.