She squinched up her eyes and shook her head in a way that made her look younger and made me want to laugh again.
“I meant . . .” Her frustration was almost endearing. “Let me down. I don’t need anyone to carry me.”
And we were back to abrasive. I wanted to tell her to shed the spoiled exterior because I knew there was something more underneath. But I couldn’t say that. That was exactly what I couldn’t say.
“I don’t care what you think you need.”
She rolled her eyes and then nuzzled her head into my shoulder. “Fine, carry me all night. Works for me.”
God help me, but I was both annoyed and attracted to her. I always had been drawn to things that were bad for me, and she would definitely top that list.
Before I could do something stupid, like lean down and capture that stubborn pout with my lips, I dropped the arm that held up her knees and made her stand up on her own.
She gave me a small almost-scowl, but then shrugged in disinterest and began to flounce away.
“What? No thank-you?”
She stared at me over her shoulder and said seriously, “I’m not in the habit of thanking people who do things to me against my will. So, if you don’t mind—”
She turned, ignoring me, and signaled for the bartender.
I hesitated. I could leave now and take my chances that she would only remember me in passing, not enough to severely hinder my job. She’d had enough to drink that that might be likely.
Or I could stay because . . . Well, I didn’t have shit on the because side of things. My feet were already moving forward, and I’d already pulled out a stool to take a seat beside her. Because I wanted to.
“Give her a water, too,” I said to the bartender.
She glared at me like I said, Give her the plague while you’re at it.
I was a masochist. Really. That was the only explanation. You’d think voluntarily going to war would have taught me that; but no, staring into her eyes was when it became truly evident.
“You’re awfully pushy, stranger.”
She bit her lip, and her eyes wandered down the muscles of my arms, and I was glad I was sitting down because my body liked that entirely too much. I directed my eyes to the worn wood of the bar that looked like it had been repurposed and put together from scraps.
“You’re awfully drunk, princess.”
I needed to keep reminding myself of that.
She laughed. “Honey, I’m barely getting started. When I start talking about how I can’t feel my cheeks and get a little touchy-feely, then you’ll know I’m awfully drunk.”
I’d seen her be touchy-feely, and then some. And the thought of being on the receiving end of that made the temperature seem to rise a few degrees.
The bartender returned with a shot of tequila, a slice of lemon laid across the top of the glass, and a cup of water.
Kelsey shot me a look of mock disdain and pushed the cup in my direction. I squeezed my hand around it as she took hold of her shot, offered me a sarcastic salute, and then tipped it back.
It was one thing to watch her drink every night from afar; it was harder to be there right beside her. She’d thrown back the tequila without even a wince. In fact, I think she smiled as she bit into the slice of lemon. I stared at the empty shot glass she placed on the table, just the barest trace of tequila settling back down to the bottom.
To distract myself, I said, “If you’re trying to drink away the memory of that kiss on the dance floor, I doubt it will work. That’s the kind of kiss that sticks with you.”
She made a face. The kind of face most people make after a shot of tequila. “You don’t have to tell me that.” She rubbed her knuckles across her cheek, no doubt remembering the path her friend had licked out on the dance floor.
I felt the need to laugh again, but stifled it. I didn’t know what it was about this girl that was so funny to me. Maybe it was just that I saw a previous version of me in her, and I was finally starting to get enough distance from that version that I could see the absurdity in it all.
Kelsey’s eyes locked on mine, and suddenly things seemed much less funny.
She said, “You know, you could always help me find another way to erase the memory of that bad kiss.”
I closed my eyes with one thought. Masochist.
I slid off my stool and turned around, leaning against the bar. This way I could talk to her, but stare out at the dance floor.
I said, “I could do that . . .” But then I was certainly, completely f**ked and wouldn’t have a chance at following her without being recognized.
“But it’s so much more fun to keep picturing the look on your face as it was happening.”
She made an almost identical look of horror before settling into a pout, and this time I didn’t manage to stifle my laugh before it escaped.
She leaned into me, her chin tipped up toward me. Her warm arm brushed mine, and I thought, who was I kidding? I was already f**ked. I might as well pack my bags now.
She said, “I can think of a few things that would be more fun.”
I looked over at her, even though I was supposed to be looking at the dance floor. I berated myself to look away even as my gaze trailed up her legs. It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen her before, in much less clothing even. But something about the fact that she was right in front of me, within touching distance, and that she knew I was looking made it even harder to look away.
When I got to her chest, a vision of that emerald green bra from the botanical gardens in Kiev popped into my head. I yanked my gaze away, my thoughts squealing like a train dangerously close to derailing.