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Whew. I’m gonna need another water.
“Let’s do this.” Guy waves for the server again, his share of the fries abandoned. “Let’s get this over with. Then we can get annulled or divorced or whatever and go back home and forget it ever happened.”
Sure. Yep, we can do that. No problem.
I drag the fry basket closer, my heart sinking to my belly.
* * *
Neither of us rode the bull. I am so disappointed in Drunk Effie, although probably not for the same reasons as Guy.He’sall surly because we’ve hit a dead end. Me? I just really wanted to have done it. I wanted to bethatgirl, adventurous and carefree and wild, but apparently I missed my chance.
And I can’t even ride the damn thing now, because freaking Guy is right as always and these fries aren’t sitting well in my stomach. I drape myself over the bar, groaning with my cheek mashed into the stained wood, as he paces back and forth behind me.
“We could walk around all the chapels in the area and see if anyone recognizes us. I bet they get that a lot. They probably put up wanted posters.”
I’m too hot again. Flushed and sweaty and gross. And my head hurts and my eyes are dry andgod, why does this hangover have a part two?
“Effie. Concentrate for a second.”
I flip him off over my shoulder, but my hand must be pretty shaky because suddenly Guy’shere.Stroking soothing circles on my back.
“Okay. Do you need me to take you to the bathroom? Should I bring you a trash can?”
I snort, shoving my face into the bar until my nose squishes to the side.
“Figures you’d see me like this again. And of courseyou’refine, Mr Self Control. Mr I-Don’t-Eat-Fries. Why did you even order them, huh?”
Guy flips my hair out of my face then goes back to rubbing my shoulder blades. “Yes, I see why you’re angry about this. Very reasonable, Effie.”
There’s a long pause with nothing but the mechanical grinding of the bull, the pumping country music and the whooping hen party. The soft rustle of Guy’s palm against my dress. But when I scrabble for his free hand, he lets me hold it. He even tangles our fingers together and squeezes.
“We can go back to the hotel.” His voice is low and reassuring. When he steps close to my stool, his warmth spreads over my side. “We can fly home tomorrow and hand it off to my lawyers, Effie. Make it their problem. It doesn’t really matter if we don’t remember the whole night.”
“Yes, it does.”
It does tome, anyway. Drunk Effie did body shots with her hot boss! What else did that girl get up to? Damn it, I want the credit!
And if Guy and I, you know,didanything… I want to know that, too. I want to remember it. I want to dredge up those memories, and savor them until I’m old and gray.
Taking a deep breath, I push upright on my stool, still clutching his hand. Holding Guy’s gaze, I tell myself to be brave. “I might have an idea. You, um. You know that video of us from Jensen’s feed? On the bar?”
My boss looked pained, but he nods.
“It triggered something for me. I think, um. I think I remember it. Flashes, anyway.” Guy stares at me, a muscle leaping in his jaw, and I force myself to keep going, talking over the ruckus in the bar. “Obviously there’s no guarantee that we, um, that we did anything else, but if wedidand those memories came back, it might help to—to knock the rest loose, too.”
Guy blows out a long breath. He’s frowning over my shoulder now, not meeting my eye, but his thumb rubs my knuckles. “What exactly are you suggesting, Effie?”
“We could try it,” I croak. “For—for sleuthing reasons. We could do it and see if we remember anything.” I grip the edge of the bar and put it all out there, heart racing. “It wouldn’t mean anything. It’s one little kiss.”
Guy
Idon’t kiss her in Randy Mack’s. Dignity may be a distant memory, but there need to besomestandards, damn it, and I won’t kiss my assistant for the first time in a sticky rodeo bar.
The first time that I remember, anyway. Fuck.
Effie chatters brightly behind me about Western movies as I lead her by the hand out toward the street, through dim corridors lined with posters of famous cowboys, and she’s somehow magically recovered from her bout of sickness. Effie’s always like that: all in or all out. Quiet and shy or dialed up to one hundred. She shakes off bad moods like she’s shucking a raincoat.
Half the time, I’m the one who put her in a bad mood to begin with. Shit. What am I doing?
