Free Give It All by Cara McKenna Page B

when her role as Alex’s friend had become overshadowed by her role as his bartender, the distance growing each time she’d had to cut him off and send him home. It had only made losing him harder. Though she had no idea what she ought to have done differently, she couldn’t help feeling she’d failed him. As she’d watched his casket being lowered, all she’d thought was
I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
    Duncan Welch might mean far less to her than Alex had meant, but she couldn’t bear the thought of suffering all that regret again. Of feeling as though she hadn’t done enough, when she’d had the chance.
    Eventually she stood and juggled the empty mug and kettle and pot holder. Her guest would probably want to go back to the motel now. The idea made her queasy, but he’d be tough to convince to stay, for the night. But she could be tougher.
    “More tea?” she asked.
    No reply, and she looked to his face for the first time in twenty minutes. He was asleep. Tilted gently to one side, eyes shut, lips parted. He looked . . . peaceful. As loose as she’d ever seen him, and she had to smile.
    She grabbed the old afghan off the back of the rocker. She held her breath as she lowered the heavy thing over Duncan from the shoulders to the shins. Tucking it along his sides, she was struck by how soft his skin was, and how hard his biceps were. His hair was uncharacteristically messy, and she smoothed it off his temple. Also soft. Three crisp lines creased his forehead, etched by a million dry eyebrow raises. He had little lines beside his eyes, too, and at the corners of his mouth. She wanted to touch his dignified nose, his pale eyebrows, his perfect ears and neat brown lashes, his near-blond stubble. He . . . he fascinated her. She wished she could lay her body against his without waking him. Spoon him as she had done Miah forthese past few weeks, see how much warmer or colder or harder or sweeter he’d feel.
    Psycho.
She stood up straight, backed off. Took the sugar and milk to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. She left the glass on the table before Duncan and switched off the television. Behind the muffled din of the bar, she heard his breathing. Faint and steady.
    She flipped off the light, studied his face a final time in the glow of the moonlight. She wondered if she’d see that face again in the morning, or if he’d sneak out in the dead of night. She knew now, she couldn’t guess.
    She didn’t know this man at all.

Chapter 7
    Duncan woke from the heat—from a beam of hot sunshine baking one side of his face. He opened his eyes, recognizing nothing at first. Nothing aside from the smell of toast; a faintly burned scent, echoing the disturbing dream he’d been tangled in. Charred black bones, just out of his reach.
    “Good morning, star-shine.”
    He turned, finding Raina leaning along the frame of her kitchen door, and it all came back to him. He’d fallen asleep, slumped on her couch. A cold wave washed through him, chased by the heat of humiliation. He couldn’t think of anyone he’d less rather have been so weak in front of.
    She’d draped a blanket over him; it pooled in his lap as he sat up straight. He faked nonchalance even as the burn of embarrassment warmed his throat and ears. “Good morning. I didn’t expire in the night, then?”
    She shook her head. She was wearing . . . not a lot. A tank top, as usual, but her jeans had been replaced with quite-short shorts. Soft little cotton things with a taunting drawstring, barely more modest than panties. Her wavy hair was bundled up in a messy knot, giving Duncan a fine view of the part of her he found most alluring of all—her neck. That shifted the heat, embarrassment giving way to darker sensations, if not completely.
    “You want coffee or tea?” she asked. “Or a shower?”
    “No, no.” He had to get back to his motel room. Even jobless, he still had
some
responsibilities. Astrid would be wanting breakfast. “Thank