Chilled and Thrilled (Daddy Issues #1)

1. Sophie

1

SOPHIE

I might be drunk.

To test the theory, I lean back on my stool, squinting at the neon-framed Specials sign behind the bar. It spins. I’m ninety percent sure they don’t usually do that.

Okay, might be drunk upgraded to probably drunk. There’s still a possibility that I’ve contracted some kind of brain-eating virus, or an extreme case of vertigo, or forgot that I didn’t eat or sleep all week. That being said, the binge drinking does seem like the most likely explanation.

What’s that thing people say? When you hear hooves, think horses, not zebras? In this case, the horses are the half dozen cocktails I ordered, purchased, received, and drank (rapidly) in the past hour.

I’m not proud. Being of sound mind and delightfully curvy but lactose intolerant body, I take pride in comporting myself with the dignity my aggressively mediocre station in life demands. People expect things of me. I pay my rent on time. I work at a place. Sometimes, I feed the neighbor’s cat when she goes on vacation. I’m practically a pillar of the community, and I cannot do any of that while sloshed. Ergo, I do not make a habit of this kind of self-destructive behavior.

Tonight is an exception—a really good exception—and I intend to make the most of it. Life is short, and if you don’t walk away from it with a single embarrassing drunk story, you’ve probably been playing it too safe. I have not been playing it safe. I have been a very, very dumb dummy who does very poorly advised things like falling in totally unreciprocated love with a man who is basically the definition of off-limits. If there’s ever been a situation to justify my current lapse in responsible adulting, it’s this one.

Let the city crumble into the sea.

Let the angry birds descend.

Let the lobsters in the grocery store escape their tank, collect weapons, and rise in rebellion against us.

I, Sophie June Nelson, am off duty from community pillaring, for I am too wasted to care about any of it.

“She hasn’t stopped staring at that sign for, like, five minutes.” I look around, surprised to find a blonde sitting on the stool beside mine, staring back at me with a kind of fond exasperation.

I squint at her. “I think we’ve met, madame.”

“Yes, we certainly have.” She sighs, craning her neck to look at something on my other side.

Oh damn, is it cake? I would eat the ever-loving shit out of some cake.

Turning, I frown. Another familiar-looking madame, but zero baked goods. “You’re not cake.”

“Okay, honey. I think it’s time to call it a night,” says Not Cake.

My jaw drops. That feels funny, so I do it a few more times. “Wait,” I tell her when I’m done, “you’re not the boss of me.”

The word “boss” triggers something in my muddled brain, and I brighten, diving for the bag hanging off the side of my stool. The moment I straighten up, clutching my phone, Mada me Not Cake snatches it right out of my hand. “Oh no you don’t.”

I peer at her for a moment, weighing my odds of being able to get it back. She’s taller than me, not by much, but my current blood alcohol level puts me at a distinct disadvantage. “Should we fight?”

Blondie sighs heavily. “We should probably get her home. Before she sees the karaoke machine.”

Both stand and I blink, looking back and forth between them. “But I want to drink more.”

“Jake cut you off two drinks ago,” reports Not Cake, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder. “You’ve been drinking soda with whisky on the rim.”

I whip back around to glare at the bartender, who is pouring a beer from the stick thingy, and doesn’t even look ashamed of himself. “I thought we were friends, man. That’s super rude. Can’t you see I’m trying to work through some stuff here? Isn’t that bartender 101?”

“‘Super rude’ would be letting you get so drunk that you choke to death on your own vomit.”

“The correct term is aspirate, penis face. It’s what happens when you get a bunch of wet chunky stuff where there’s only supposed to be no wet chunky stuff.”

Bartender gives Blondie and Not Cake an exasperated look. “Get her home.”

They each take one of my arms, marching me toward the door. “Guyssss,” I whine, “do you think he was intimidated by my spry wit and quiet, dignified intellect?”

“That’s definitely it.” Not Cake sticks out her arm to stop me from mowing down a pedestrian.

The sudden movement makes my stomach churn ominously, but I am not vomiting right now. The night is young, and I am determined to make every single bad choice ever. “Hey, can you guys take me somewhere to get pregnant and try illegal narcotics? For funsies?”

Blondie pushes the door to the bar open, and all three of us squeeze through onto the cold street. “Yup. Absolutely. I’ll order a car to take us to Illegal-Narcotics-R-Us.”

“You forgot getting me pregnant.” I peer around, and my eyes lock on a man standing at the curb. He’s okay looking. “Excuse me! Sir!” There’s a round of shushing from my jailers, which I ignore. “Want to get me pregnant?”

He blinks at me. “I’m gay.”

“Damn it!”

Blondie leads us farther away from the gay guy who won’t get me pregnant. “Jesus, Sophie,” she groans, shaking her head. “You’re going to get us murdered.”

“That sounds like a great time. I bet we’d make the local news and become F-list celebrities. Do you think they’d let us skip the line at Olive Garden? I’m gonna make it rain breadsticks!”

The street we’re on is lined with bars and crowded with throngs of college students, home for winter break and avoiding their families. Christmas lights adorn every window, and bouncers stand guard outside the doors, waiting to be called forth to banish riffraff like myself. Not Cake and Blondie seem determined to get me out of here, though, and I trot along between them, breathing in the refreshing aroma of mozzarella sticks and urine.

“Okay,” says Blondie when we turn the corner and find ourselves in a more civilized part of town, one with more restaurants and boutiques, fewer puddles of questionable composition. She takes my shoulders and pushes me down on a bench. “Sit, Sophie. I mean it.” And then she takes out her phone, frowning at the screen.

“Are you going to share why you’ve decided to trash your liver tonight?” asks Not Cake, plopping down beside me and rubbing her ungloved hands together.

It’s cold enough that vapor from our breath curls through the evening air, but I’m not as cold as I should be. I peer over at her. “I thought it was too healthy. Getting cheeky from all that green juice and yoga. It needed a fire drill. Nobody needs some wimpy-ass-bitch liver.”

Not Cake looks to Blondie. “You really need some video documentation of this. You’re missing out on some truly unparalleled blackmail material, Honor.”

Ignoring them, I let my head drop back over the edge of the bench, staring up. It’s too bright here to make out the stars, but the glow from the Christmas tree in the nearest shop window creates a pretty, blurring effect against the black sky. I stare at it for a while, listening to the rumble of traffic and the voices of people entering the nearest restaurant.

I feel strangely outside it all. This woman is an island, one of the pathetic, lovelorn, and way too drunk.

“Okay. Cars on its way,” Blondie reports, and movement in the corner of my eye suggests she’s taken the empty stretch of bench on my other side. Reaching into my purse, I pull out a water bottle and take a swig, wincing at the burn as it goes down my throat.

What the hell did I put in here? Oh, right. Vodka. I take another swig.

“Oh, my god! Is that booze?” Not Cake snatches the bottle from my hand and sniffs it. “Jesus! Sophie!”

I flip off Blondie when she takes the bottle from Not Cake and throws it into the trash can a few yards away. “That’s very wasteful.” I yawn, stretching. “Can we go to Illegal-Narcotics-R-Us, now? It looks like getting pregnant is off the table since my taste in men is unavailable.”

Something tells me I shouldn’t have said that. The confused expressions on my companions’ faces confirm it .

“Wait, you haven’t told us about anyone,” says Blondie reproachfully. But before she can question me further, her gaze seems to catch on something on the sidewalk behind us. “Actually, hold that thought. I think that’s Dad. Hey! Dad!”

Too fast, I turn, staring in horror at the man walking down the sidewalk toward us. He’s tall, his brown hair tousled by the evening breeze, and so handsome it makes my teeth ache. He isn’t alone. A beautiful older woman is at his side, her red-painted lips split into a smile right at him, like she’s having the time of her freaking life. His hand rests on the small of her back, guiding her down the sidewalk.

With the same kind of abrupt shock as having ice water thrown in my face, the world seems to right itself. My stomach rolls. My head spins. My chest cracks down the middle.

Time is moving much slower than normal as he turns our way, smile falling as his gaze finds first Honor, then me. The hand on the small of the woman’s back falls to his side, and I stare at the space between them where it was, gripped by a sudden bone-deep cold that wasn’t present a moment ago.

“Hey, girls,” he clears his throat, “small world.”

Not Cake—Leni—is looking at me, her brows bunched together.

“I know, right!” laughs Blondie—Honor—brightly. “Hi, I don’t think we’ve met before,” she addresses the woman at her father’s side.

Bram clears his throat again . “No. You haven’t. Rebecca, these are my daughters, Honor and Lenora.” He laughs a little, uncomfortably. “Girls, this is a friend of mine, Rebecca.”

A friend? What are we, twelve? Honor and Len just caught their dad on a date. Their hot, rich, single, very eligible bachelor father is out on a date with a woman who looks like she has a ten-step skincare routine and knows where to buy a 401k. The woman is wearing high heels and a coat that is obviously dry clean only. She has her shit together.

“Nice to meet you,” say Honor and Leni, perfectly polite and not at all fazed by this.

Bram continues, still not looking at me, “And this is Honor’s roommate, Sophie, who is also one of my colleagues.” As he says my name, his gaze lifts to meet mine, and I feel the familiar lurch of desire that sprung up from time to time in college, and then an awful lot more after I was hired at his firm.

“It’s so nice to meet all of you.” Rebecca smiles around at us, lacing her fingers in front of herself. “Lenora, your father mentioned you’re a dancer? I was also, not a professional obviously, but I hope we can exchange war stories someday.”

God, she seems nice. Of course she is. Bram is probably the nicest guy on the planet, and every single person on it loves him. He wouldn’t date a jerk.

Date.

Bram is dating.

Bram is dating while wearing the sweater I once said brings out his eyes, and suddenly started to see him wear much more often.

His hand was on her back, and he was obviously taking her out to dinner. He was probably going to have sex with her. He was… oh fuck. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m going to cry. This is the embarrassing drunk story. Right now. I’m living it. The call is coming from inside the house.

When am I going to learn that these kinds of things are good in theory but not in reality?

“Sophie.” Bram’s voice cuts through my spiral, and he steps forward, worry flashing over his handsome features.

“She’s fine,” Honor assures him airily, “just thought she’d keep her liver on its toes tonight. You’re not her boss right now, you’re her best friend’s dad, so I’m not obligated to pretend our little Sophie isn’t drunk as a skunk.”

He ignores her, reaching out to curl his hands over my arms, spreading warmth through my whole body as he gazes down at me in concern. “Sophie, are you?—”

Bram doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence, though, because I lean over and puke on his shoes.