His quiet chuckle made me homicidal. It also made me realize he could stand here and give me shit all night long. Or at least until he sobered up.
Apparently, it was up to me to put a stop to this round-and-round and make sure Brady didn’t crash into anyone on his way home. I could do this. I could be the bigger person. I would not let my nemesis win this battle.
“Fine,” I snapped. Reaching out, I snagged the front of his stupid puffy vest and dragged him in the direction of my car.
“Whoa! Okay, I always knew you’d want to be in charge.” He followed along like the dog that he was. “I’m fine with being manhandled. We should probably decide on a safe word, though. I think it should be ‘meat loaf.’”
I stopped abruptly and spun to face him. “Why meat loaf?”
Brady replied solemnly, “Because I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that.”
I blinked, and then I bit my lip hard. “You are such an idiot.”
“You’re trying so hard not to laugh right now.”
I ignored that. “And we do not need a safe word because I am driving you home.” He opened his mouth, but I didn’t give him a chance to interrupt. “And I’m leaving you there to sleep it off.”
He eyed me for a moment. “Okay, you can drive me home.”
I eyed him right back. Brady was giving in, but, for some reason, I didn’t feel like I was winning. “Get in the Jeep.”
His lips curled, and a dimple popped in his right cheek. “Yes, ma’am.”
The eight-minute drive to downtown Kirby Falls tested nearly all of my patience, but I tried to remember that I’d brought this upon myself. Everyone knew that drunk people were annoying, but Brady was a pain in the ass even when he was sober. He entertained himself by digging through my glovebox and center console, keeping up a running commentary all the while. He dissected my music choices and criticized everything from my smudged windshield to the air freshener I had dangling from my rearview mirror.
By the time I slowed the Jeep on the empty street in front of his second-story apartment, I was ready to shove him from the moving vehicle.
“Thanks for the lift,” he said as I turned on my blinker and pulled to a stop.
“You really shouldn’t have even thought about driving drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not. I drank one cranberry cider all night.”
My mind spun as I thought back to Brady laughing and carrying on, drink in hand. Could that really have been the same bottle all night? “But you practically fell over your own feet on your way out. Right into me,” I argued.
“Oh,” he replied, completely unbothered. “That was because Abby kicked me when I stood up from the picnic table. I’m not drunk, Mac. I’d never drink and drive.”
I stared at him while fiery anger—so scalding and familiar—filled my chest. My hands tightened involuntarily around the steering wheel.
“Are you telling me you let me think you were drunk so I’d drive you home?” The words were gritted out, my jaw tense and set.
“You were the one who insisted,” he argued. “You practically dragged me into your backseat.”
“Front seat,” I corrected.
“Semantics.”
I took in a slow breath through my nose. “Get. Out.”
His quiet laughter made my grip tighten on the steering wheel once more, the leather groaning beneath my palms as I imagined his clean-shaven throat in its place.
Brady opened the door and unfolded his tall frame out onto the empty sidewalk. At least there weren’t any witnesses.
With a cheerful wave, Brady called, “See you later, MacBook Pro.”
