Twenty minutes later, Flint pulls up beside the curb in his pickup. It’s going to be a hell of a time bunching in there, but I’m sure we can all manage.
“What happened to her?” he says, looking worried as we load Callie into the cab. She’s singing about the wheels on the bus now, her lipstick smeared across her cheeks, and soon falls asleep against Jessa’s shoulder. I help Suze in, and then climb up last. I have to try again, because my heel catches in the door. I’m not drunk, dammit.
“You okay?” Flint asks, leaning toward me, concern on his face. Mmm. Sexy, stubbly face. I want to rub my hands against his face and luxuriate in the beardy bliss.
I love girls’ night out.
“We’re fine,” I tell him, grinning as he puts an arm around me and helps me in. Then he gets into the truck, and we drive away. First we drop off Suze, who gives me one perfectly raised eyebrow.
“Call me tomorrow,” she says, and waves at Callie and Jessa. “Nice to meet you.”
“Blessed be,” Jessa returns, doing some kind of yoga bow while Callie snores and drools. We drop the sisters back at Callie’s house. David doesn’t look thrilled when he sees his wife, but he lets them in. So it’s just Flint and me as we head back to my hotel.
Flint and me. Sitting in a tree. T-E-Q-U-I-L-A.
Okay, the truth is, I’m not that plastered. I just have enough liquid courage in me to play the part. “Man, I’m so glad Callie took us for that night on the town,” I say, choosing my words very carefully and articulating them nicely. It’s the ‘I’m not drunk, look how not drunk I am’ way of talking.
“I think you need to go to bed,” Flint says, sounding nothing but concerned. Yes. Bed, please. Bed would be very good. Always nice to bring a friend.
In the warm buzz of tequila, my career concerns are evaporating. It’s not like we’re going to make out in front of the whole crew, for God’s sake. A little private rendezvous never hurt anybody, did it? Man, I’ve been so uptight.
And I know exactly how I need to unwind.
We get out of the truck, and I pretend to stagger a little. I’m a master trickster. “Whoa, I got you,” Flint says, lifting me up as easily as if I were only a feather. A really big feather, of course. I don’t actually need him to carry me up the stairs and into my room. But the feel of his arms around me again is too wonderful to pass up. I let my head fall back, allow every muscle in my body to relax. Flint makes a little small talk with Mrs. Beauchamp as he climbs the stairs. Tells you a lot about how close the small town is, that she doesn’t even blink when he carries me inside. Flint manages to open the door while I’m fake swooning, and takes me over to the bed. This all feels very familiar.
The blood rushes faster in my veins, and I keep my arms hooked around his neck. He smiles down at me, his face warm with tenderness. But there’s still a spark of something in his eyes. I can sense it. I know he wants this, too.
There’ve been moments, haven’t there? Moments where he’s looked at me the way he did right before our wild hookup night. He wants to do it again, doesn’t he?
And while the terrifying images of Brian Sanderson’s self-destruction keep reverberating through my brain, I know—I KNOW—that I’m more careful than Sanderson was. I can let myself have a little fun. Just this once.
“Hold on,” Flint says, reaching down and sliding my shoes off. “It’s full service here at McKay Tipsy Transportation.” I have to let him go, reluctantly. He puts the shoes next to my bed and winks at me. “All right?”
My whole body is on fire. “All right,” I say, hearing how throaty my voice sounds. I slide my arms around him again, slowly. He doesn’t pull away as I kiss him. His mouth is warm against mine, and the smell of him, the musk of his cologne, the wood from his workshop, it drives me crazy as he folds me into his arms. Every molecule in me seems like it’s on fire. His kiss is scorching, melting everything inside of me.
And just like that, he breaks it off.
“I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “That was a real jerk move on my part.”
“What?” I say, feeling bewildered as he slides off the bed, apology written all over his face. “No it wasn’t. It’s all right. It’s fine, everything is fine.”
“No, it’s not. You’re drunk, and taking advantage of that would be terrible. And you’ve seen how complicated things get when we...jump into things.” He shrugs.
“Flint—”
“I don’t want to keep having the same morning-after talk, about how we won’t do this again. So let’s just not. Let’s act like adults.”
His words feel like an elbow strike to the gut during Krav Maga sparring. No, worse. I’m so bowled over by being called an immature hornball that I can’t even speak.