No luck.
A group of guys bumps into me, almost knocking me over.
“Hey!” one of them exclaims, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “Have a drink with us, pretty lady!” he slurs.
“No, thank you,” I say politely, hoping that it will get them to leave me alone. “I’m heading home for the night.”
“Oh, come on!” he groans. “Don’t be such a loser. It’s still early!”
I try to pull away from him, but his fingers dig into my shoulder. “No, really, I’m okay—” The bar door being thrown open interrupts me.
Asher waltzes out the door and glares at the group of men around me. “There a problem here?” he asks in an icy tone.
“No,” laughs the man with his arm around me.
“She’s with me, so we’re about to have a problem if you don’t get your hands off her,” he growls.
Liquid heat fills my stomach at his tone and words. Or maybe it’s the alcohol.
She’s with me, echoes in my head on repeat.
“Sorry, dude,” the guy says, letting go of me so that I go careening backward. My ankle twists as I fall awkwardly on the pavement and skin my palms. He’s already walking away with his buddies as they all burst out into laughter without so much as an apology.
Asher gives me a concerned look as he rushes to my side and helps me back to my feet.
“Sorry,” I mutter, testing putting weight on my ankle. It buckles, and I wince at the sharp pain in my joint.
“Is your Uber on the way?”
I gesture weakly to my phone, which thankfully is unscathed after that tumble. “Phone’s dead, I haven’t replaced it in years, so the battery life is essentially nonexistent. I was going to wait to see if a taxi came along or maybe just start walking. I don’t live too far from here.”
“How far away do you live?”
“I live on 56th street?” I say, knowing it’s too far to walk—especially with a sprained ankle.
He looks at me like I’m nuts before gesturing to my shoes. “There’s no way you’re making it there in those torture devices after that fall. Come on,” he insists. “I’ll drop you off.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I start to say before he stops me with a piercing look.
“You’re not putting any weight on your injured ankle. You’re lucky I don’t insist you go to urgent care. You’re not walking home, and there’s no way a taxi is going to be out here. It’s on the way for me; it’s no big deal.” He grabs my hand and leads me, limping, to the parking lot around the side of the bar, toward a gray Range Rover.
Suddenly, I feel like a petulant child. I rip my hand away and nearly fall again as my ankle refuses to support me. Asher catches me around the waist just before my back hits the car.
His face is just inches from mine.
“Sorry.” I let out a breath of air.
“You smell like apples,” he replies quietly, his eyes glancing down to my lips.
“Sorry,” I say again, licking my lips. “It’s the apple martinis.”
He tears his eyes away and shakes his head before opening up the passenger door and helping me inside. It smells like him. Like pine and sandalwood. I look around for an air freshener, but don’t see any. It’s all him.
The inside of his car is immaculate. No trash, no receipts, nothing hanging from his rearview mirror. No personal touches.It doesn’t surprise me that he keeps his car impersonal and probably cleaner than when he first purchased it.
He gets in the driver’s seat and holds out his phone to me. I look at him, dumbfounded, before he bites back a laugh. “Can you put your address in? Or did you just want me to drive to 56th Street and hope that you recognize the place with your beer goggles on?”
I take the phone from him and mutter, “Martini goggles, thank you very much.” I punch my address in, but decide to add, “I also want it on the record that I’m not drunk. I fell because that guy was an asshole, not because I drank too much.”
