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If, by some miracle, she does forget this moment, I have no intention of reminding her. Not when she’s let herself be vulnerable in front of me. Something I know she would never do sober.
I can feel the wetness of her tears on my shirt as they drip off her chin onto my chest.
Neither of us speaks, but I hold her close.
Soon, her soft sobs fade away, and all that’s left is the sound of her breathing.
For a moment, I wonder if she’s fallen asleep, but then she lifts her head and looks at me through glassy eyes.
“Thank you . . .” She leans toward me, and the air between us grows thick as our gazes lock. It feels like time stands still as we watch each other. She tries to stand back up but stumbles back down before she can take a step.
Luckily, I’m there and reach my hand out to steady her.
“Easy there.” I laugh. “You okay?”
She takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she slurs. “I’m not a f-fan of s-s-s-storms.”
She leans against me for balance and wraps her arms around my neck. That’s when she giggles.
“I’mholdingyou.” Her words come out like one long word, then she hiccups.
“What?”
She shakes her head as if that will sober her up. “You’re shaking. Are you scared, too?” She’s adorable when she’s drunk, grinning away and mumbling her words.
“I believe the shaking is all you,” I say, trying and failing at smothering a laugh.
She looks up at me, her eyes sparkling with life and excitement, even in her drunkenness. I chuckle and shake my head at her antics. “You know . . . I’m not like him. I’m really not. If you got to know me, you’d know I’m nothing like my father.”
Jesus . . . this again. We’ve been over this, and I’d prefer to move on with life. It’s already been established that she isn’t him.
Just one more indicator that Mallory is three sheets to the wind.
She looks away, embarrassed by her sudden vulnerability. I don’t know what to do or say, so I just wrap my arms around her and hold her tight. She buries her face in my shoulder and takes a deep breath.
“Thanks,” she mumbles again. This time her eyes flutter.
“You already thanked me.” I chuckle.
Her lids pop open, and she looks around the room until she’s staring at the rum bottle. “Why are we done drinking?”
“I don’t think you need any more.”
I eye the bottle with contempt, angry with myself for not having hidden it earlier. The last thing either of us needs tonight is another drop of rum.
She looks up at me, her vision blurry as she blinks a few more times. Then she narrows her eyes. “Why don’t you like me?”
I sigh heavily and avert my gaze momentarily, annoyed this is still coming up. I understand she’s drunk, but I’m doing my best to try to forget about how big a dick I was. Her constantly bringing it up only makes me feel worse.
“We’ve already established that I don’t hate you, Mallory.”
She shakes her head, disagreeing with my answer. “No, no, you do. I can tell. Everybody can tell.” Her voice cracks, and she stares down at her hands in her lap.
“I don’t,” I say softly. “We’ve discussed this.”
“But when I asked about the rum, you said I didn’t need any more.”
I smirk. “Tomorrow, you’ll agree with my decision to cut us both off,” I say, emphasizing the fact that I don’t need more either.
“You did . . . hate me.”
I nod, prepared to be truthful. “That’s true.”
“But not the first time you met me. You liked me then.” Mallory giggles before slapping a hand over her mouth. “Oops.”
For fuck’s sake. The last thing I need with a drunk Mallory sitting in my lap is a reminder of that night.
“You’re right. I did like you. A lot.”
She inhales slowly and looks up at me with an intensity in her eyes that she doesn’t usually have. “I like you now,” she whispers as she closes the distance between us. Her body twists until her small hands land on my shoulder, and the next thing I know, her lips are on mine.
Through the haze of rum, I kiss her back.
I shouldn’t. This is a bad idea on so many levels. But I can’t help it. I want her. I think I always have—even when I was too busy hating her.
Pent-up emotions flood through me as I plunder her mouth with my tongue. Her fingers run through my hair, pulling at the strands and deepening the kiss.
But it isn’t enough, and as my hands leave the side of my body and slide down hers, the haze of the booze and the moment start to fade.
Fuck.
I can’t do this.
This kiss is wrong.
She’s drunk.
Despite my dick being all in, I know I must stop this. Tomorrow, she might hate me if I allow this to go too far.
