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“He’s…not my friend. Nope. He’s my…neighbor,” I explain, sliding the cash over. “Ke-eep it as…a tip. I can buy…my own drinks.” It comes out in more of a slur than I intended. Oops-y.
“Your neighbor said he’s going to fetch the car and wait for you outside.”
I’m filled with a storm of emotions I can’t even begin to navigate. On the one hand, oh, my God, was that the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. On the other, he really just left me there to make a phone call. Every time I think I’m warming up to the guy, he does something else to remind me what an utter jerk he is.
I shouldn’t ride home with him.
I should get an Uber.
When I get up from the barstool, I feel wobbly. Really wobbly. That cocktail must have been stronger than I thought. I haven’t had a sip in ages, and all of a sudden, it’s hitting me like a freight train. I guess I’m just out of practice.
In my defense: a rough day at work, which somehow triggered memories of my ex, and bam, those thoughts practically begged for a glass of bubbly (or three. Or four?).
I insist on paying my bill. I still have some dignity.
Just when I stumble out of the bar, two firm hands grab me.
Sitting inside a comfy limousine, I close my eyes.
I’ll only sleep for a minute.
Or two.
Or.
A few moments later, I open my eyes.
And blink.
And blink.
“Let go,” I hear him grumble.
“Ooo-kay,” I chirp, and reluctantly, I let go of these beautiful steel-hard shoulders of this gorgeous specimen of a man. Wait. Was he carrying me? What’s his name again? How strong he is, because I’m not a lightweight—no, sir, not this one. Where am I? Definitely not in the huge limousine anymore. How good he smells. Woody. Intoxicating. Dominant. Nothing like my ex. This one, he smells like a real man.
“No good night kiss?” I ask him, looking up into his eyes from my lying position. It’s comfy. Those long eyelashes on him! He has beautiful eyes. Brown. Or green. Or are they blue? It’s too dark to tell.
“Not tonight,” he grumbles.
“K.”
Next time I open my eyes, it’s still night. I’m lying on a couch, snuggled under a blanket. Where the hell am I? My head hurts, and I’m thirsty. When I hear the rustle of wings nearby (Pippin), I know I’m on my couch. Thank goodness. I can barely recollect my grumpy neighbor hoisting me over his shoulder, but once we were on our floor, he made it his personal mission to help me find my key (which, I swear, had decided to play hide-and-seek in the depths of my purse), and then he unceremoniously plunked me down on this very couch.
It’s all a bit of a tipsy blur, to be honest.
I look up. It’s 3:13 a.m.
Did we have…sex? No. We didn’t.
I sit up.
And blink.
There’s a glass of water and Tylenol on the coffee table. How thoughtful of him. It was a small, yet unmistakable act of heroism on his part. I feel instantly better when I gulp it all down.
But I still have no clue when it comes to his name.
Perhaps he is a Peter.
