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“Right. Key.” I dig into the pockets of my coat.
Can’t find it.
“Here.” He unslings my purse from h
is shoulder—my very pink-and-orange purse that was hanging from his very broad, muscular shoulder—and hands it to me.
I take it without a word and rummage inside blindly until I happen upon my keys. Looks like I’m still staring at him because he pries the keys from my hand and turns to open the door.
“Why…?”
He swings the door inward and glances at me, making an impatient sound. When I don’t move, he wraps his hand around my arm and tugs. “Come.”
I try again. “Why are you here?”
Without giving me a reply, he pulls me inside.
Inside. My apartment. I repeat, Ocean Storm is inside my messy apartment.
If I wasn’t so woozy, I’d be calling the television station. Breaking News. HOT STUD SIGHTED IN KAYLA EVERETT’S APARTMENT.
Oh God, stop it, brain. Just stop.
“Are you okay?” he asks and then proceeds to catch me when I stumble over the threshold. He walks me backward.
“Well, this is a bit like it.”
“Like what, Kay?”
“Like dancing.”
He turns his face away and produces a strange squeaky noise.
“Are you all right?” I ask, kinda worried, because his shoulders are shaking and—
“You’re so drunk.” He’s laughing, I realize. He shakes his head as he turns me around. He walks me forward this time, toward my sofa. “I’m never letting Jesse talk me into doing this again.”
“Wait.” I dig my heels into the carpet. “Wait a second.” I lick my lips, gather my thoughts. “You’re doing this because Jesse asked you to?”
“You don’t remember?” His grin falls. “He said you asked for me.”
I twist away from his hold, and he lets me. We face each other, words hanging in the air between us like those bubbles in comics.
“I asked for you?”
“Didn’t you?” His brows draw together, the blue in his eyes going stormy. “Fuck, I’m gonna kill that motherfucker. I knew he was screwing with me.”
My drunken thoughts are a jumble. He drove me home because Jesse pulled a prank on him?
Funny how my heart drops to my feet.
Crap. Cocooned in layers deep of alcohol, with no barrier between my conscious and my unconscious, I wanted him to say he brought me home because he thinks I’m pretty, and special, and because he has a thing for me.
God, he’s right, I’m so drunk. I only wanted to touch him, feel that rock-hard body under his clothes, maybe have some fun with him for one night.
But he doesn’t want me. And I knew it.
“I’m going to bed,” I announce, not wanting to admit even to myself how disappointed I am. How stupid I feel.
