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She gives me a withering look—as much of one as she can muster, at least—but she does as I tell her. She doesn’t make a jailbreak run as I storm around the side and get in behind the wheel. Good. I don’t need her to fight me on this.
“You didn’t have to—hic—talk to Quinn like that,” she mumbles. “We were just having a g-good time.”
“I wouldn’t call what I just saw ‘a good time,’ Olivia.”
The engine revs and she falls silent. I pull out onto the road. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tear streak down her cheek. Then and only then does my anger finally ease.
“Hey—”
“It’s not her fault that guy was a creep,” she interjects. “That kind of stuff happens all the time and it wouldn’t have mattered if she was in there with me or not?—”
“You think that makes me feel better?”
“Do you think it makes me feel better? It wasn’t you he was touching all over!”
I draw in a breath. She’s not wrong. I hate it, but she has a point. The likelihood I would ever know what that was like is so slim I might as well not even think about it. But for Olivia? For Olivia, “that kind of stuff happens all the time.” That’s sickening.
“You’re right,” I concede. “I’m sorry.”
We don’t speak the rest of the ride home. In the lull of the car, Olivia nods off. Her head presses to the window and her breath fogs it up. Under other circumstances, it would be cute. Instead, I’m stuck doing endless, frustrating mental loops over the same useless territory. How much she and Quinn had been drinking, how Quinn hadn’t had her back. What would have happened had Marcus not let it slip that Quinn and Olivia were headed out to the club.
My anger flares up again. Quinn is a wild card. I don’t like the idea of that rubbing off on Olivia.
You’re one to talk, buddy. You’re the one with the secret baby and the maybe-wife.
* * *
“Olivia, wake up. We’re home.”
I have the passenger door open, car parked on the sidewalk so she doesn’t have to walk far to get into the house. Olivia startles awake. A trail of drying drool creeps out of the corner of her mouth. I’m tempted to swipe it away. Clean her up. Take care of her.
Olivia has other ideas.
“Why’m I not home?” she asks me. “Take me to my mom’s. I don’t wanna be around you, Reese.”
Ah. So she’s a stubborn drunk.
“You really want me to take you to your mother’s while you’re like this?”
She opens her mouth, then lets it fall closed again.
“Fine,” she huffs. Deciding to be Miss fucking Independent, Olivia then starts to haul herself out of the car. The only problem is that she misjudges just how wasted she is and stumbles. I lunge forward and catch her before she hits the ground, cradling her weight against me.
This is the first time in a week I’ve been able to touch her. My chest clenches.
She catches my eyes. Embarrassment reddens her face. But for the length of one breath, we feel like us again. The Reese Dalton who just wants to take care of her. The Olivia Carter who is willing to let that happen.
Then she seems to remember that she’s mad at me and she shoves at my chest with an angry snort.
“I can walk!”
“Can you?”
She huffs again, which seems to be a staple of Drunk Olivia. Petulance like a child. I let her take one step. She sways on her feet and nearly stumbles forward. Swift, before her face can make contact with the sidewalk concrete, I grab her by the arms and hoist her into mine.
“Stop being so fucking stubborn.”
“Stop being such a dick.”
