“Thanks.” Ben pockets my card and receipt, then turns toward me, hooking his arm around my waist and effortlessly lifting me off the stool with his superhuman strength.
“Hey, hey. I can walk bymyself,” I say crossly, swatting at him. Before the words are even out of my mouth, I stumble in my four-inch stilettos and nearly face-plant onto the shiny mahogany floor. It’s in a herringbone pattern. How chic.
But before I can, Ben catches me—it’s becoming a habit—steadying me with strong hands on my arms. When I’m upright again, we’re standing so close our chests are touching.
Chapter 11
I’ve never really looked at him so close up, and from this distance I register a slew of things I never noticed before: the faint five-o’clock shadow dusting his jawline; his hair, curlier than I thought, falling over his ear a little; a tiny silvery scar cutting through his right eyebrow; the kaleidoscope of colors in his eyes conspiring to make them glow so obscenely. These eyes should be illegal.
“How’d you get that scar?” I reach up and touch it.
He eyes me warily. “Fell off my bike when I was twelve. Flew over the handlebars. Are you ready to go?”
I remember something and snake my hand around to his back pocket. He tenses, catching my forearm. “What are you doing?”
“Taking back what’s mine, of course.” I pinch out my credit card and wave it in his face like a golden ticket. He blinks slowly, his expression darkening.Touchy.
He wraps an arm around my waist and half walks, half drags me toward the front entrance. I can’t even argue, since I can’t seem to walk more than a few steps without toppling like a Confederate statue. When we make it outside, the cool air hits my face like a slap.
“Fresh air feels good.”
“I bet it does, Drunky Drunkerson.”
Something about his flippant response breaks through my drunken fog, triggering the realization that Ben is really, truly here. I study him, taking a mental inventory. He’s wearing dark jeans—I’ve never seen him in jeans before—and a thin, long-sleeved green shirt. No, a sweater. I squint. Well, I can’t tell if it’s a shirt or a sweater, so henceforth it shall be known as a shirt-sweater.
One thing I do clearly notice is how good he looks in it. Damn good.
The color suits him, the green bringing out his extraordinary eyes. The fabric hugs every muscle and curve of his massive frame like it’s been poured over him, molding to his ridges and planes like liquid gold.
My drunk thoughts are weird.
“Yes, you needed some air.” He’s still propping me up, one arm curled around my waist while the other taps on his phone. “So look, I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s going to take twelve minutes for an Uber to get here. We’re near enough to your apartment to walk in that time, so that’s what we’re going to do.” He eyes me skeptically. “You think you can walk?”
“Of course I can,” I say, indignant. I hold my arms out and heel-to-toe along the curb like a balance beam. “I walk the line,” I croon, doing my best Johnny Cash.
Ben yanks me away from the curb, drawing me tight to his side, and sets off walking. I’m propelled forward through no effort of my own.
“You know I had a Donkey Date tonight.”
He flicks his eyes to mine but doesn’t comment.
“I got stood up.”
“His loss.”
I start laughing, causing my stride to falter, and his arm tightens around me. “Oh, come on, don’t go soft on me now. Say I told you so. I know you’re dying to.”
He shakes his head.
“I sat there like a loser for an hour. My server thought I was pathetic.” I peer up at him. “Seriously? Nothing?”
“I’m not gonna give you a hard time tonight no matter how much you want me to, so you can quit trying. It’s not a fair fight.”
“You mean now that I’m so tragic?” I scoff. “I don’t need your pity-niceness.” My heel hits a crack in the sidewalk and I wobble, pitching sideways.
“Okay, this isn’t gonna work.”
Before I can ask what he means, he sweeps me off my feet. Literally, he bends down, hooks an arm underneath my knees, and scoops me up like I’m lighter than air, a feather on a gust of wind.
