I wait for the answer, curious as to what he’s going to give.
The strangest look passes over his face. “It’s an escape for me. Helps me forget when I want to forget . . . things.” With a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes, he adds, “You think you have me all figured out.”
“If pompous, philandering, narcissistic ass is what I’m thinking, then . . . yeah.” I need to stop drinking. Loose lips syndrome has officially taken over. Next, I’ll bring up my dirty dream.
He nods slowly. “If I don’t mess around, would that make you feel better?”
“Well, it’d certainly make your girlfriend feel better,” I mutter.
“What if I didn’t have a girlfriend?”
I don’t notice that my feet stop moving until his do as well. “You . . . broke up with Dana?”
“What if I said that I did? Would it matter to you?”
Not trusting my voice, I simply shake my head. No, in my head I know it wouldn’t matter because he’s still all wrong.
“Not at all?” His eyes drift to my mouth as he asks in a tone so gentle, so vulnerable, so . . . hurt, almost.
My body involuntarily reacts to him, my hands curling tighter around his neck, pulling him closer to me, wanting to comfort and assure him. What exactly do I feel for him?
The slow song has ended and moved on to a high-tempo rock song, but we’re still standing chest to chest.
I know I shouldn’t ask, but I do it anyway. “What you said in that note. Why?”
He looks away for a moment and I watch his jaw clench. When he meets my eyes, there’s resignation there. “Because you’re not a one-night girl, Irish.” Leaning in to place a kiss on my jawline, he whispers, “You’re my forever girl.”
His hands slip away from me and he turns. With my heart pounding in my throat, I stand there and watch as he calmly walks to the table to grab his jacket.
And then he walks out the door.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Attraction
You’re my forever girl.
I can’t shake his words. Since the moment they escaped those perfect lips of his, they’ve hung over me. They followed me all the way home in a drunken stupor, they crawled into bed with me, and they lingered there all night to greet me the moment my eyes opened in the morning.
Moreover, I can’t shake the way I’ve felt since he said them. Or even the way he made me feel the entire night. I can’t articulate what that feeling is; I just know that it wasn’t there before. And it’s still here now, even though I’m sober.
I’m attracted to Ashton Henley. There. I’ve admitted it. Not to him or Reagan or anyone else, but I may as well admit it to myself and learn to deal with it. I’m attracted to my drunken one-night stand, who also happens to be an unavailable whore and my kind-of boyfriend’s roommate and best friend. Wait. Is he available? He never answered my question. But I guess a whore is always available, so it’s a moot point.
Lying here, staring up at my ceiling, I have sorted out one thing, though. My body is staging a mutiny over my mind and my heart, and consuming alcohol is like handing it a set of knives.
Reagan’s moans interrupt my silent berating. “Jack bad . . .” As usual, she didn’t pace herself, matching Grant drink for drink. Grant, who has at least a hundred pounds on her. “I feel like a horse’s ass. I’m never drinking again.”
“Didn’t you say that last time?” I remind her wryly.
“Hush now. Be a good roomie and support my self-deception.”
I don’t feel much better, truth be told. “Alcohol really is the devil, isn’t it?” My fanatical Aunt Darla may not be so crazy after all.
“And yet it makes the nights so much fun.”
“We don’t need alcohol to have fun, Reagan.”
“You sound like an after-school special.”
I groan. “Come on. We should probably get to class.”
“Uh . . . which one?”
Rolling my head to the side, I can see that the red digital clock on the dresser reads one p.m. “Shit!”
“Still angry with me, Livie?” Dr. Stayner asks in that smooth, unperturbed way of his.
I kick a loose stone as I make my way to my train. “I’m not sure yet. Maybe.” That’s a lie. I know that I’m not. But that doesn’t mean that I won’t be again by the time I hang up the phone.
“You never could hold a grudge . . .” Kacey was right. He can read minds. “How are you?”
“I skipped class yesterday,” I admit, adding dryly, “Doesn’t sound like part of my autopilot master plan, does it?”
“Hmm . . . interesting.”
“Well.” I roll my eyes and confess, “not really. I slept in. It wasn’t intentional.”
He chuckles. “And how do you feel, now that it happened?”
I frown. “Strangely, okay.” Twenty-four hours after a mini meltdown—one where I texted my lab partner in a panic and he assured me at least five times that the prof didn’t notice that I was missing and that I could borrow his notes—I’m oddly unbothered.