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But it’s referring to Lake.
As in,Lake’sbrand.
And it bites just as hard as he does, the fire of the alcohol burning in my belly, crawling up my throat, making my head fuzzy and—
A hand on either side of me, gripping the edge of the counter, boxing me in, chest pressing to my back, his body close and burning nearly as hot as the fire from the alcohol inside me. “Why aren’t you pissed?” he asks.
It takes me a minute to process his question.
I blame the vodka.
Iblamethat hard, hot body boxing me in.
I shrug, attempting to feign indifference to his closeness. “You saved my camera.”
Silence. Then a hand coming to my shoulder. He shifts back—barely—as he turns me to face him. Which means my body brushes along the full length of his and—ho, mama—but thatbranchof his is…
Impressive.
He’s still an asshole.
Just also an impressive one.
“That’s not it,” he says, hand still on my arm, crouching down a little to meet my eyes.
I hold them, even though it’s hard, and shrug again. “What else could it be?”
Fingers tightening, body not moving away. “It’s something.”
I lift my chin. “Why do you care?”
His jaw flexes. “I don’t.”
Pointedly, I let my gaze slide to where he’s holding my arm. “Then why are you pushing this?”
Silence. For long enough that I’m certain he’s not going to answer me.
“Because you’re calm,” he says.
“Uhhh…” I frown. Is this a bad thing?
He shocks me by going on. “You should be hysterical. Throwing plates—or knives at my head, or something.”
I freeze. “I should be throwing knives at you?”
His face immediately closes down, hand dropping away. He grabs my glass and his own, filling them both with another shot. He tosses his back, fills it again, then tosses that back too.
Okaaay.
Maybe that passing out is going to commence sooner than planned.
“Lake,” I say.
He thrusts my glass in my direction. “Shot time.”
The apples of his cheeks are reddened from the alcohol.
“Someone threw knives at you?”
