What Not to Were (8 page)

Leaning into his hand with a soft purr, she smiled.

She knew.

She really did.

R
eaching upward, Calla stretched her arms, numb from sleeping in the same position all night long—in Nash’s strong embrace.

A warm thrill shot through her when she remembered last night, and not just their incredible lovemaking, but how well loved she felt once she’d revealed everything to him.

How secure and sexy he’d left her feeling made her smile just before she yawned. She knew she should get up and see if Nash had some toothpaste she could scrub on her teeth with her finger, but his strong body, still in sleep, kept her in the bed.

She forced the small niggle of regret, that she’d put Nash on the spot the way she had, out of her head. It was the only way she’d felt comfortable enough to do it, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

Her last encounter had been horrible. Turned out, Reed claiming he understood what he’d see versus actually
seeing
it was just cheap talk. It had been humiliating entering an encounter with anticipation, only to find herself shunned and rejected.

Going into last night, Calla had opted to show rather than tell, rolling the dice and gambling that Nash would love her anyway.

She took a deep breath and sighed a happy sigh at how right she’d been.

Calla peered over at him. He rested on his side, the morning sun peeking through the illusion he’d created last night, giving his skin a glow. She rolled to her side, too, admiring how beautifully sculpted he was, with his long lashes sweeping across his cheek and his thick dark hair tousled from sleep.

Inching closer, she ran the palm of her hand over his chest, reveling in the heat of his skin. Moving in, she brushed her lips against his nipple, making him stir. He groaned and shifted, catching her hand in his.

Then he stilled, becoming almost frozen in place.

Which was odd.

But she didn’t let that deter her. Maybe he just wasn’t a morning person. She had plans to fix that as she scooted beneath the covers…

Until he roared, “
Who the hell are you
?” from above her before leaping from the bed, his feet hitting the hardwood with a solid thud.

Calla sat up in surprise, forgetting to take the sheet with her, but then she giggled. Nash was always joking around. Holding out her hand, she summoned him. “Very funny, Cowboy. Finally get me into bed and suddenly you can’t remember my name? A likely story.”

He whirled around, locating a blanket tossed on the floor, then scooping it up to wrap around his waist, his eyes wild and angry…

Angry? Her nostrils flared.

He was red-hot pissed off—it rolled off him in waves, vibrating the stifling air.

His eyes narrowed at her. “I said, who the fuck are you and why the hell are you in my damn bed?” The cord of muscles along his neck strained against his skin.

His question rang hard in Calla’s ears, making her cock her head. “You’re joking, right?” Of course he was joking.

Ha-ha.

Nash’s eyes scanned the landscape of the room, noting her dress and underthings on the floor. He began furiously picking up her clothing, lobbing it on the bed. When he came to her prosthetic, he fumbled.

It slipped from his fingers like a fumbled football before he caught it again and held it in his hand as though he’d just picked up droppings from Bitty with unprotected fingers, staring down at it then looking to her.

“
What the hell is this
?”

Okay, now he’d gone too far. This was no longer funny. It was almost cruel. She didn’t know who this man was. Was he having some sort of blackout? A brain malfunction?

Sliding from the bed, she pointed to her chest. “You know damn well what that is. It’s my prosthetic. You know, because I’m the one-boobed wonder?”

For a brief moment, the fury of his tight face relaxed. He dropped the prosthetic on the bed, the gel misshapen from his clutch on it. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive.”

“Damn right it was insensitive. This isn’t funny anymore, Nash!”

Planting his hands on his hips, his blue eyes fiery, he pointed to the bedroom door. “Look, lady, I don’t know who in the bloody blazes you are or why the hell your clothes are all over my floor or even why you’re naked in my bed, but you need to get dressed and get the hell out of her.
Now
!” he yelled, so loud, Calla felt it in her bones.

Tears stung her eyes, salty and bitter. What the hell was going on? “Did you just say you don’t know who I am?”

His lips, so often tilted upward in a warm smile, thinned to a tight line. “I’ve never seen you before in my life, and if this is some kind of joke, if you drugged me or whatever, I’ll take you to the Witch Council and see to it you end up in jail if you don’t get out of my damn house in the time it takes me to count to ten!”

“Drugged?” she muttered, her knees trembling.

“You tell me,” he responded with scathing sarcasm, pointing to the rumpled bed. “Apparently, you were in charge of this rodeo.”

Calla’s mouth fell open, her throat going tight. He was serious, deadly so. She’d only seen him angry once or twice, and it had been over Denny’s advances toward her, but it wasn’t even close to the rage she smelled on him now. His large body literally shook with it, the muscles in his arms tense, his stance defensive.

Pulling the sheet to her, she yanked it off the bed, suddenly embarrassed to be standing completely naked. “I don’t…understand.” What was going on?

Grabbing her by the arm, he hurled her clothes at her. “How convenient. Somehow you tricked me into bed with you. Put something in my drink at the dance, maybe? I don’t know and I don’t give a damn. Get out of my house!”

Searching his gaze, she sniffed the air between them, forced herself to see his eyes full of anger and wild with disapproval, and it shook her to her core, digging a hole in her soul, deep and agonizing.

Whether it was shock or disbelief or fear, rather than try to explain or rationalize or even prove he knew who she was, Calla tore her arm from his grip and ran.

With the sheet still around her, leaving everything but her purse, which she grabbed by the front door, she yanked the door to his house open so hard, she pulled it clear off the hinges.

She stuck her clutch purse between her teeth and let the sheet fall away, caring little if any of the ranch hands saw her as she took off toward the pasture, letting her shift take over.

As she flew past Bitty, he muttered a “Mornin’, Calla,” but she ignored everything except for the overwhelming need to get home—to hide.

The crunch of bone shifting, the stretch of skin, freed her as she made a dash for the fence, arcing high over it and landing on the other side with her paws now intact.

And she kept right on running over Nash’s vast acreage, her brain racing, her heart aching and tattered. She panted for breath around her purse, the harsh sunlight beating down on her back as she aimlessly tore through a patch of pecan trees.

Nothing made sense. Nothing. But she didn’t think about it. She didn’t do anything but let the hot air swish past her sleek fur as she tried to outrun her pain.

* * * *

Nash stared after the woman who’d just left his bedroom, furious. What the hell had he had at that dance last night and who the hell was that woman?

His lips thinned when he looked down at her clothes scattered over his floor, but as his eye caught what she’d called a prosthetic, he remembered his ugly words and regretted them. Despite the fact that she had no business in his house, he’d said something cruel in his surprise, and that disgusted him.

He needed coffee and a shower, in that order, and then he was going to investigate what had happened at the dance last night. He didn’t even remember leaving the hall.

In fact, curiously, he didn’t remember going to it either. He only remembered that his plan was to attend. Period.

How fucked-up.

But hold on. Had he been the one to initiate a one-night stand with her? That was so unlike him these days.

Yeah, but chemistry happens, Ryder, and you have to admit you found her pretty attractive even as angry as you were.

Damn. He’d acted like a real ass.

Someone had to have some answers, and if she was responsible, he was going to see her ass, as sweet as it was, in the pokey until he could contact the Council.

And if you’re responsible?

Then he was damn well going to figure out why he couldn’t remember how she got into his bed and in the process, see if she might be interested in beginning again.

For some reason, some unexplainable, irrational reason, he almost hoped for the latter rather than the former.

* * * *

Calla pushed her way onto the tiny fire-escape at her grandfather’s window, her bulky body pressing against the iron rails, and scratched the glass with her paw, dropping her purse on the small landing. Ezra was a sound sleeper. So sound, she doubted he’d wake if a tornado landed in the middle of the bedroom.

When he didn’t stir, she scratched and whined again. The last thing she needed was for anyone to see her like this. Not today. Not after…

Popping upright, Ezra ran a hand over his bead and scrubbed at his eyes as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Calla-Lilly? What in the hell are you doin’ out there, Sunshine?”

She scratched again, harder this time, with a desperate whine spewing from her throat.

Ezra opened the paint-peeled window, shoving it upward with a grunt as she fell inside, dropping to the floor. Forcing her way past her gramps, who wore old, worn flannel pajamas and an astonished expression, she headed straight to her room as she began to shift back to human.

Nudging the door shut with her muzzle, she listened, satisfied when the latch caught just as her limbs began to return to their human form. She collapsed on the floor by her bed, panting, exhausted.

Ezra pounded on the door. “Calla! You let me in, young lady! I want an explanation! If I have to go kick that Nash Ryder’s ass from here to China, I wanna know why I’m doin’ it!”

Tears began to seep from her eyes, fat, salty droplets of shame. She didn’t know if she understood what had just happened well enough to give Ezra permission to kick Nash’s ass.

None of this made any sense. Not a single second from the moment she’d awakened. Taking a deep breath, she tried to get a grip on herself, tried to clear her head as Ezra continued to knock. “Gramps! Just give me a minute. Okay? Please. Let me get a shower, and then we’ll talk.”

She heard him cluck his tongue from behind the door and grumble. “I’ll make coffee, Kitten, but you hurry it up in there or I’m gonna go drag that horse-puckey shoveler from his damn house and tear his throat out!”

She almost laughed at how sure Ezra was that something had gone wrong with Nash. If only he knew
how
wrong.

Pulling herself up to the edge of her bed, she glanced at the clock and realized she’d told Kirby she’d drop by later this morning to check in on her—it was the first time she’d let anyone open the center for her. If she didn’t make an appearance, Kirby would become suspicious.

Several deep, shuddering breaths later, she padded to her bathroom—the one her grandfather had renovated just for her, with an enormous white cast-iron tub and freshly whitewashed bead board along the walls.

He’d said he’d done it because all girls should have a private place to make their pretties without having to do it around whisker stubbles and globs of shaving cream.

But today, it didn’t soothe her the way it usually did.

Today, as she caught sight of the soda tab still on the chain around her neck and fought a sob, nothing could soothe her.

* * * *

Ezra frowned, his weathered brow wrinkling as he poured another cup of coffee for Daphne and Greta, who’d rushed over the moment Ezra had stuck his interfering nose in and called them. “Say what now, girl?”

God. She was talking about having sex in front of her grandfather. Somehow the natural order of things had become quite a SNAFU.

Calla let her chin fall to her chest and said one more time, “He kicked me out of his house, Gramps. Told me he had no idea who I was or how I’d gotten him into the bedroo—Well, you know what I mean. But he very clearly said he didn’t know who I was and then he practically shoved me out the door.”

Twyla Faye curled around her ankles. “Butthead! I know, I’ll curse his sinfully delicious keister! He’ll be in Vegas gettin’ hitched to the fountains at the Bellagio while Elvis croons ‘Love Me Tender’ in just a swish of my tail!”

Calla reached down and scooped up Twyla Faye, setting her on the table. “No. No more marriage proposals to inanimate objects. I appreciate your wanting to defend my honor, but you keep your magic to yourself.
Please
.”

Daphne’s eyes went wide—again—while Greta fondled her precious whistle, her knuckles white. “Do you want me to send Fate over there, Calla? He’ll wipe the place clean with him! Oh, wait. I know! I’ll have Fate call Mother Nature—she’ll whip up a tsunami. A big, ugly wave of water that’ll wipe him clean off those rippley thighs of his! She can be one uppity bitch, but she’s a real tiger in a pinch. You know—”

“No!” Calla shouted, hopping up from the dining room chair, her heart still racing. “I don’t want you to send anyone anywhere.” Unless they could send her back in time.

Reaching for the countertop, she leaned into the cool exterior of her fridge and kept trying to breathe.

This was a waking nightmare.

All while she’d taken a shower, she’d tried to understand what had happened. What would make Nash go to sleep saying he loved her and wake up not recognizing her?

All of the acceptance and love she’d experienced last night was trashed. The image of his face, his eyes, roaming over her as though she’d taken advantage of him, kept flashing through her brain, making her want to vomit.

That’s when doubt had begun to set in. All the horrible words Reed had once said about hoping he could forget what she looked like naked, when he’d thought she was out of earshot, began to worm their way into the cracks of her insecurities.