She heads downstairs.
Roman looks at me, and I realize I’ve been staring.
“I should probably head home,” I say, standing carefully.
“I’ll drive you,” Roman says immediately.
“I drove here.”
“You’ve had four glasses of wine.”
“Three and a half.”
“Marnie.” The way he says my name makes the argument die in my throat.
“Let me get my things.”
The goodbyes are full of knowing looks. Sarah hugs me and whispers, “That man showed you his entire thigh for no reason. Think about that.”
“Text us when you get home!” Chloe calls as Roman guides me out with his hand barely touching my lower back.
The truck is stupidly high. I stare at it, calculating the physics of entry in a dress.
“I’ve got you,” Roman says, and then his hands are on my waist, lifting me easily onto the seat.
For a moment, I’m looking down at him, my hands on his shoulders for balance. His hands are still on my waist.
Neither of us moves.
“Seatbelt,” he says finally, voice rougher than usual.
He reaches across to buckle it, and I’m surrounded by him. His warmth, the smell of his soap, the way his hand brushes my hip.
“Address?”
I give it to him, proud that my voice only shakes a little.
We drive in silence for a few minutes before I break.
“You didn’t have to show them your tattoo.”
“They seemed interested.”
“You pulled your shorts up really high.”
“Did I?”
“You know you did.”
He glances at me. “Did you mind?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.”
“Which is it?”
“I’m drunk.”
“You’re tipsy.”
