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“Did you just pull a French Kiss?” I wring out my hands.
“Do you want me to pull a french kiss?”
“Ha. We watched that movie together, remember? And the lead actor, Kevin-what’s-his-name—“
“Kevin Kline.”
“Yes! Good memory. So Meg Ryan was afraid of flying, and Kevin Kline distracted her during takeoff by arguing with her.”
His eyes twinkle. “You just answered your own question. I do have a good memory. We watched it at your grandma’s house. She had that big old couch we loved, remember?”
For half a heartbeat, our eyes lock. This is the man I do remember. Kind. Thoughtful. Sweet when he wanted to be.
He always did take good care of his people. But that’s just the thing—I’m not his person. Not anymore.
“I should get going,” I say, stepping back. My body cries out at the sudden, cool rush of air between us, and I suppress a shiver. I turn to wash my hands in the sink. “Great catching up. And, er, being caught, I guess.”
Rhett laughs. “You sure you’re all right?”
I hold my hands under the dryer. “All good.”
It’s only when he rocks backward, catching himself on the lip of the sink, do I realize just how wasted he is.
“I think the better question is, are you all right?” I ask, grabbing his arm now to steady him.
He looks down at my hand. “Guess I am drunk. On you.”
Can’t help it. I laugh too. “With lines like that, it’s no wonder you’re alone.”
He wobbles again. “And high on summertime . . .” he starts to sing.
I glance at the door. I really should go. Tomorrow will be an early wake-up call. I’ve got brunch with some girlfriends from college, lesson plans to work on, plus meal prep to do for the week.
I glance at Rhett. He’s still singing that damn Luke Bryan song, and he’s still clinging to the sink, tripping over his own feet.
“How the hell did you manage to lift me over that door without falling over?”
He turns his head to look at me and smiles. “Magic, baby.”
And then he trips and falls on his ass.
“Rhett! Jesus Christ.”
I lunge for him, but he waves me away. He opens his mouth in silent drunk laughter, rolling a little to the side to relieve what I imagine is a very sore butt cheek.
“I’m okay,” he gasps. “Really, I’m fine.”
I find myself vaguely hoping he hasn’t done permanent damage to that perfect butt—yes, I noticed, it’s impossible not to in those sharply tailored slacks—as I grab my shoes and slip them on. Then I squat down and loop his arm around my neck.
“What are you doing?”
“Returning the favor,” I say. “You rescued me, so now I’m rescuing you. We’re even, all right? Now push up on the count of three.”
Chapter Three
Rhett
I wake up with the hangover from hell.
My head feels like the inside of a stadium when the score is tied with two seconds left, and we’re on the five-yard line. Cotton fills my mouth.
My ass hurts something fierce.
Folding my pillow over my head to block out the light from the windows, I attempt to roll over on my stomach but stop halfway.
My dick is hard as a fucking rock.
It throbs as memories from last night hit me like a freight train. Amelia’s laughter. Her bra peeking through the neckline of her dress.
How much fun it was to talk to her.
Be with her.
“Aw, baby,” I groan and reach beneath the covers for my cock. Usually I sleep naked, so I’m surprised to find I still have my boxers on.
Whatever. Happens sometimes when I go to bed drunk.
I pull my woody through the slit, hissing when I give myself a slow, hard stroke. My hips jerk, and I pump into my hand with a moan, closing my eyes to relive last night’s best moments.
The feel of her body against mine, tits rising and falling as she caught her breath.
The spark of mischief in her eyes as we exchanged innuendo.
“Baby—”
“No baby here,” a voice somewhere in the room says. “Just me. You all right there, killer?”
My stomach flips, and I wrench open my eyes, blinking hard when I see Amelia standing at the foot of my bed.
She’s wearing one of my team’s hoodies over her dress. Her bed-mussed hair, dark and short, is tucked behind her ears, and mascara is smudged beneath her right eye.
She smiles, and my brain scrambles. Immediately, I yank my hand off my dick and hold it up, as if to say, look, I was definitely not rubbing one out while thinking about your tits!
“You stayed over?” I ask, tugging that hand through my hair.
She grins. “You don’t remember begging me to stay to make sure you don’t, and I quote, ‘drown in your own puke’?”
I suck a breath through my teeth. “Yikes.”
“Yeah. You were convinced you were going to die. By the time you were asleep, it was late, and I was too tired to drive home. Here.” She walks to the side of the bed and holds out a big glass of water and a pair of turquoise pills. “Thought you might need these this morning.”
