wasn’t like they could march her to the altar and make her marry Darion, who would have a few things to say on the matter if it came to that. But they could make her very, very miserable. Darion had cut and run after they’d canceled the wedding, and was currently hiding out in Kalispell, but Em didn’t have that option. She had a job at the local café. She had no qualms about quitting, but she also had only a small nest egg to support her if she moved elsewhere—which left her at the mercy of Selma, the control freak.
There was a loud thump from the other end of the trailer and a muttered curse.
Jess, who’d given up his bed for her.
Well, he owed her for the crappy way he’d treated her in the past.
Em pushed back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for her head to clear. Dear heavens, but she’d kill for orange juice.
Maybe Jess had orange juice.
She reached for her pants, which were in a heap on the floor, grimacing as she realized they were soaking wet. A memory started to crystallize...tripping, hitting the puddle next to the truck, going down...
Embarrassing.
She shook out the pants. There was no way she was pulling those clammy things up her legs, so she got out of bed and opened the closet. There, on a shelf, was a stack of neatly folded jeans. She’d been hoping for sweats, but jeans would do. Sitting back on the bed, she pulled on the Wranglers. Jess was lean, but the pants still hung low on her hips. She bent down to roll the cuffs and instantly wished she hadn’t as her head started pounding harder. Aspirin was also a necessity.
She looked around the bedroom for her purse and came up empty. Hoping against hope that she hadn’t left it at the Shamrock, she put on the sweater she’d worn the night before and then quietly opened the bedroom door and slipped into the bathroom.
Yes. Ibuprofen. An economy-sized bottle, such as one would expect to find in the medicine chest of a bull rider. Pain was part of the game. Her brother had ridden broncs and she knew about hurting. Em popped two pills, washed them down, then grimaced as she faced her reflection.
She put a hand up to her bed head and tried to push her long unruly hair into a less bent shape. After a couple of pats and pushes she gave up and pulled open the door. It wasn’t as if Jess hadn’t seen her at her worst.
Although...last night may have been her worst. She was a drinking lightweight. She blamed Jess and Len, who never let her go out with them. She’d never even been drunk until she hit twenty—only one year shy of legal age. As long as her brother and his friend were around, she was well managed.
Now, Jess’s twin, Tyler...he was fun. But he was also a friend of Len’s and made sure she didn’t get into trouble. Life after high school hadn’t been as much fun as it could have been.
The curse of being the only girl in a family of boys—although until her father had married Selma, she’d only been the youngest of two. After Len had died, she had only half brothers. Three of them. All younger and all firmly under Selma’s thumb. She’d encouraged them to rebel by setting an example, but they remained firmly managed—something she refused to be.
She headed toward the kitchen, a journey of about eight feet, past the bare bunk that Jess must have slept in to the main part of the camp trailer, wondering why she felt so stupidly self-conscious. This was Jess, after all. Worst-case scenario, he’d treat her like she was still fifteen. Best case... She wasn’t certain that there was a best case.
Jess stood at the counter staring down at the toaster. He was ridiculously good-looking. Dark-haired with sculpted cheekbones and striking eyes. Her friends had all been mystified as to why she wasn’t all over him. She assured them that it was because she knew him. It was his attitude. As in, he had this attitude toward her. So...she’d had an attitude toward him.
Yet here they were.
He suddenly looked up, meeting her gaze. Oh, yeah. Those were some eyes. Her memory wasn’t faulty.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning,” she echoed, wishing her voice wasn’t so thick.
His eyes strayed down to her legs. “Are you wearing my jeans?”
“Maybe?” She automatically hitched up one side as she answered. “You weren’t using them.” She indicated the duffels with a jerk of her chin. “And it looks like you’re packed for your rodeo trip, which leads me to believe you weren’t taking them.”
“Maybe I wanted something clean to wear when I got home. Besides, that’s not the point, Em.”
She leaned her elbows on the counter next to him. “What is the point, Jess?”
“The point is that you took my stuff without asking.”
“And if I had wandered out in my underwear to ask permission...?” She gave him a how-would-that-have-gone-over look.
“You could have called from the bedroom.”
“Oh, Jeh-ess...can I wear your pa-ants?” She raised her eyebrows in a mock innocent expression. “Like that?”
“Yeah. Like that.”
This felt like old times, when Jess would go all follow-the-rules on her whenever she came up with a great idea, like going out to party with him and her brother, even though she was underage, and she would argue with him.
“You want me to take them off?”
“No.” The word came out so rapidly that it was almost embarrassing. His loss.
“Then I guess I get to wear your jeans.” She looked around the trailer. “You have a clothes dryer here?”
“Yeah. Right.”
“They make those apartment-size things.”
“I go to the Laundromat.”
“Pity. Now I have to wear your jeans.”
He didn’t answer, making her think that he was simply making noise about the jeans. The toast popped and he set it on a plate, then put the plate on the table. Emma took the hint and sat down, even though she wasn’t the least bit hungry.
“We’re going to talk.”
“We are?”
“I brought you to my home rather than leaving you to the mercies of your mom. I want some answers.”
She narrowed her eyes, ignoring the fact that it made her head hurt. “What kind of answers?”
He set a cup of coffee on the table next to the toast and then leaned back against the counter, folding his arms over his chest. His expression was don’t-mess-with-me serious when he said, “Tell me what’s going on.”
“You want to know my business?”
“Yeah. I do.”
Em studied the table, debating. Other than Darion, no one knew the whole truth. She figured by this time, the conjecture was worse than what had actually happened,
