I untie his other shoe and slip it off, then perch on the edge of the bed. “If I thought you were a terrible person, I wouldn’t have come with you to see your family.”
He presses his lips together, considering what I said. “But I tricked you.”
I blink, my heart skipping a beat. He’s drunk, but his words land heavy. “How did you trick me?”
“Curtis thinks I tricked you into coming with me.”
“Who’s Curtis?”
“My best friend.” His face twists. “Used to be. Now he thinks I’m an asshole.”
I gently lift his legs onto the mattress, then scoot him sideways until his head hits the pillow. Out of breath, I sit beside him, staring down at his face.
“You didn’t trick me, Alex. I came of my own free will.”
“So I could sleep in my bed.” His words slur, and he lets out a laugh. “The joke’s on me—‘cause I still can’t sleep in my bed.”
The truth stabs me. Because he’s right. And I hate that he’s right.
He tries to open his eyes wide, but they sink to slits. “I didn’t get drunk so I could sleep in my bed.”
“I know that,” I say softly. “No one’s that Machiavellian.”
He narrows his eyes. “You know what that word means?”
Irritation sparks, but I shove it down. He’s drunk, and I already know that he thinks I’m some country bumpkin. “Yes, Alex,” I say, a little sharper than I intend. “I know what Machiavellian means. I’m not entirely stupid.”
“I never said you were stupid,” He frowns, confused.
“But you thought I was uneducated, right?” I scoot back down to the bottom of the bed and roll up his sweatpants leg.
“It’s just…” he stumbles over his words. “I don’t date women who didn’t go to college.”
The words sting more than I expect. I already knew that—he pretty much told me so earlier. So why does hearing him say it feel like a slap? Why do I care what this drunk, arrogant man thinks of me?
“That’s okay,” I say lightly, even though it isn’t. “It’s not like we’re really dating anyway.”
I glance up, but his eyes are closed again. I push his pants leg over his knee. The gash is deeper than a scrape, but the jagged edges mean he’s not a candidate for stitches.
I grab a wet paper towel from the bowl. “This is gonna hurt a bit.” I dab at the wound, and he flinches.
“Ow!” he yelps.
“Shh! You’re gonna wake everyone up.” If he hasn’t already.
“You don’t want them to know what a bad person I am?” His eyes are open, earnest and raw.
“Alex.” I say again softly, “You’re not a bad person. We just don’t want to wake the whole house. They need their sleep.”
He grumbles something under his breath that I don’t understand, then says nothing.
“Okay, round two,” I warn, and then dab again.
He flinches, but doesn’t speak this time, just tenses as I clean the wound. Tiny bits of gravel cling to the raw skin, and I brush them out with the edge of the paper towel. Then I soak some cotton balls with the rubbing alcohol. “This is really going to hurt, Alex. I’m sorry.”
I press the cotton ball to his knee and he jerks, cursing through gritted teeth.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “But you had pieces of the road in there. We don’t want an infection.”
