In Over Her Head: An Anchor Island Novel by Terri Osburn (reading eggs books .TXT) 📗

were a bit hazy. “Way to take one for the team, guys.”

“Happy to do it, Chef,” Axel replied.

“He doesn’t drink,” Penny informed her in a loud whisper. “Says it isn’t good for you.”

“Very sensible of him.”

“Last round, y’all,” Stacy said. “Down ’em while you’ve got ’em. The doors close in ten minutes.”

Well, that was no fun. “We just got started.”

“You’re welcome to keep the party going,” the waitress said, “but you’ll have to take it elsewhere.”

Turning to Mona, Lauren said, “Where else can we go?”

“Home,” the woman answered. “We’re already going to feel like shit tomorrow. It’s time to sleep this off.”

Without warning, Lauren was lifted from her chair and plopped onto her feet. Turning, she found Jackson staring at her with a wide grin.

“What was that for?”

“You couldn’t get up.”

“I didn’t get the chance to try.”

“You tried twice and landed on your butt both times.”

She had no memory of doing any such thing. A sure sign that Mona was right. Lauren was going to feel like hell tomorrow.

The group stumbled outside together, Deborah, Mona, and Lauren arm-in-arm. The two ladies were singing a tune Lauren didn’t know so she hummed along. They parted ways, all returning to the vehicles they had arrived in, and before she knew it, Axel was shaking her awake.

“Chef, I need to know which house is yours.”

“Oh.” She sat up and wiped drool from her chin. “My cottage is the fourth one on the right.” Looking around, she asked, “How did you know where I live? And where are the others?”

“I’ve already dropped them off. Jackson told me you live over here on Tuttles Lane, but he didn’t know which house.”

She couldn’t remember ever telling Jackson where her place was. Lauren rubbed her eyes and realized she couldn’t feel her teeth. How many damn mojitos did she have?

“Here you go,” Axel said, pulling the van to a stop. Without looking, she opened the passenger door and slid out. “You want me to wait until you get inside?” he asked.

Anchor Island didn’t exactly have a high crime rate and Lauren wasn’t so drunk that she couldn’t find her own front door. “I’ll be fine. You go on home.”

Smacking her teeth together to wake them up—did teeth even go to sleep—Lauren struggled to drag her keys from her pocket. As Axel drove away, she used the light of her cell phone screen to locate the correct key and stuck it in the lock, but for some reason, it wouldn’t fit. She flipped it over, but still nothing.

“What the hell?” she said aloud. Using the phone, she checked the key again. This was definitely the right one. Pointing the screen at the doorknob, she bent to get a closer look and tried again. Jiggling the knob, she said, “Why won’t you work, damn it?”

A second later, the door opened and a deep voice said, “Because this isn’t your house.”

Blinking, she straightened, squinting to make out the figure silhouetted against a light inside. “Then whose house is it?”

Nick flipped on the porch light. “Mine. How much did you drink?”

“How do you know I’ve been drinking?” she asked, slurring her words.

“Because you smell like rum soaked toothpaste and you don’t know where your own house is.” Stepping back, he said, “Come in and I’ll make you some coffee.”

Lauren was not walking through that door.

“I don’t need coffee. And I don’t need you taking care of me.” Losing her balance, she caught herself on the doorframe. “I’ve been taking care of myself since I was nine years old, and I’ll keep taking care of myself without anybody’s help. Including yours.”

Nick sighed. “You can barely stand up on your own. Let me get my shoes and I’ll walk you home.”

The man hadn’t heard a word she said. When he disappeared inside, she turned and managed to get down the steps without landing on her face.

“How many times do I have to tell him? I’m an independent woman. I’ve fought off bullies, creeps, perverts, and handsy dishwashers twice my size. I can damn well walk my own ass a hundred yards down this street.”

She made it to the edge of his drive when she heard, “You’re going the wrong way.”

Stopping, she squinted into the darkness. Why didn’t this stupid island have streetlights?

Gravel crunched behind her as he approached, and her inebriated brain decided this was the time to end things. Like ripping off a Band-Aid, she’d rip Nick Stamatis out of her life once and for all.

“Where do you get off?” she said, spinning on him and nearly falling over. “You said no relationships. You said we were on the same page. Then you get me into bed and you make me feel things for you that I don’t want to feel and now the page is different. It’s a new page. I don’t like this page.”

Nick knew better than to have this conversation when she was drunk.

“Just come inside. You need to sober up.”

“What I need is for you to stop being so nice to me. And hot. You’re even sexy with your hair messed up like that.” Lauren blinked up at him. “Stop looking like that.”

The last was said loud enough to echo off the cottages around them and Nick checked the house on his left. Juanita Spencer worked the counter at the island post office and was a main source of village gossip. If he didn’t get Lauren inside soon, they would be the top story for at least a week, and any credibility she had as a head chef would be gone.

“We can talk about this in the house,” he whispered.

“I’m not going in there with you!” she shouted, adding a foot stomp to make it a true tantrum.

A light went on next door and Nick made a split-second decision. Reaching for her arm, he bent and tossed Lauren over his shoulder. She squealed as he booked it for the porch. Right before reaching the door, he heard Juanita come outside and yell, “Hello?”

Clicking the door shut,