Chapter 15
Ashlyn
I’m not really sure what just happened. One minute, I’m drinking because I’m mad at Zane for being an overbearing jerk I have to date because if I don’t, I could lose my job.
The next thing I know, I’m tipsy, we are kissing, and dancing.
On the dance floor, it felt like we were the only people in the room.
Okay. I might be a little more than tipsy. I also might be about to lose my lunch and three gin and tonics.
I lean into Zane as he escorts me to his car and opens the passenger door.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask, looking unsteadily down at his Corvette.
“Taking you home? Yes,” he says.
“What if I get sick?” I ask.
“Lean out the window,” he says with a smirk, and despite how lousy I feel, it makes me smile.
As we head down the street, I stare out the window at the nightlife. I know I had too much to drink, but I also had a lot of fun. I think I was overdue for fun.
“I feel bad that you have to drive me home,” I say as the lights swirl around me.
“Well, it’s convenient since we live in the same house,” he says, and I suddenly remember that he’s right. I start laughing, and once I start, I can’t stop.
“What’s so funny?” he asks with a confused look on his normally smug face, and it just makes me laugh harder.
“You must think I’m crazy,” I say.
“I mean, the thought has crossed my mind,” he says, and I snort. That’s enough to make him smile, and the next thing I know, Zane is laughing too.
We pull up to his house, and he kills the engine, gets out, and rounds the car to open my door. He offers me a hand, and I take it. It’s hard to be a stubborn, independent woman when the world is spinning like a top.
“You good?” he asks as he closes the door behind me.
“Define good,” I say, placing my hand on my stomach. Then I rush over to some shrubs and bend over just in time to throw up.
“I hope none of your paparazzi friends are hiding in the bushes,” Zane says, attempting to crack a joke.
“Well, if they are, they might be putting in their two weeks,” I say, taking a deep breath and letting it back out. “I must look like hell.”
Zane offers a grimace. “You look beautiful, actually,” he states very matter-of-factly. My heart does a little cartwheel in my chest. “But you are smelling a little ripe.”
And just like that, Zane Calloway does what he does best and ruins the moment with his signature sarcasm.
Then he smiles. “Come on. Let’s get you inside. I think a hot cup of coffee and an even hotter shower are in order.”
I can’t argue with that. What I can argue with, however, is Zane insisting on helping me with all of it.
“Zane…I really appreciate you helping me, but I am perfectly capable of showering myself,” I say as I attempt to unzip my dress.
“Maybe so, but first you have to get that dress off,” he says. “Unless you plan on showering with it on.”
“You know I’ve never understood why they make dresses so easy to get into but so difficult to get out of,” I say.
“I think they assume you’ll have someone to help you unzip it at the end of the night,” Zane says, coming up behind me and pressing my hands away so he can do the honors.
“Sounds like a lot of people assuming a lot of things.” I mumble as he unzips me. “Alright. I’m free. Now can I take my shower, please?”
“By all means,” Zane says, waving in the direction of the steaming water. Then he leans against the counter, and I stare at him, eyes wide and obvious.
“Aren’t you going to leave?” I ask.
“I wasn’t planning on it, no,” he says.
“Are you serious?” I snap and then I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Considering you can’t take a step without nearly toppling over, yeah. I think I’ll stay,” he says.
I open my mouth to argue again, but it gives me the distinct sensation that I might puke again. Considering how flattering it was the first time I did it, I think I’m going to do my best to keep it down.
I do my best to shower quickly, which is easier said than done. Thanks to the scalding water and coffee, I seem to be sobering up rather quickly, but headed face first into the world’s worst hangover.
“God,” I mutter as I do my best to slip into pajamas. “What did she put in those drinks?”
“Well, you know bartenders. They like to add alcohol to the drinks,” he jokes, but I’m not laughing.
“It takes more than three gin and tonics to green my gills this badly,” I tell him.
“Well, that makes sense considering you had two shots before the gin and tonic started flowing,” he says. I stare up at him from my bed.
“Shots?”
“Yeah.”
“I did shots?” I ask.
“According to who? Because whoever it was, they were lying,” I say.
“The bartender,” he says, and I lay down, nestling into the luxury fluff.
“What does she know?” I mumble.
“Right, she was only the one pouring the drinks,” he says with a small chuckle.
“Please don’t tell me you’re enjoying this,” I say with my eyes closed.
“Seeing you sick?” he asks. “No. Seeing you off your high horse for a minute? You better believe it.”
My eyes flash open at him. “My high horse? You should talk.”
“Oh, I’m not denying I have a seat right up there next to you,” he says.
“Well look who found their humble bone,” I tease.
“Says the girl who never admits anything,” he shoots back, and I look at him once more. “You don’t think I’m honest?” I ask.
“I never said that. But I do think you hide a lot of yourself,” he says. “I think you’re afraid to tell people how you really feel.”
“I’ve put you in your place a million times since we met,” I say.
“Sarcastically,” he says.
“Alright,” I nod. “Fine. If I play a little game with you, will you let me sleep off this hangover?”
“What’s the game?” he smirks.
“Truth or dare. Minus the dare. Ask me anything. Anything at all, and I’ll be honest. But you only get one question and then you turn off the lights,” I answer.
“Alright,” he nods. He’s sitting on the edge of my bed, leaning down over me.
If I wasn’t on my deathbed, I might be turned on.
He runs a hand through his hair, making the silver of his temples glisten in the lamplight.
A few matching hairs making themselves known in the soft stubble on his chin.
Suddenly his eyes light up and he smiles coyly down at me. “What’s your type?” he asks.
“My what?” I ask.
“Your type. What’s your type in men?”
“I guess that depends,” I say. “I like smart. Funny. Kind…”
“Oh, come on,” he says. “I suppose next you’re going to tell me you want someone who works hard but knows how to have fun. Brooding but playful.”
“I mean, that sounds nice,” I smile, knowing I’m driving him nuts.
“Come on. What do you like? Tall? Muscular? Lean? Clean cut? Tattooed? Suit and tie? Ripped jeans? Blonde? Dark?” he asks, and I wait a moment before locking my eyes on him with a small smile.
“I don’t care about any of that,” I say softly.
“No?” he asks. “So what do you care about then?”
“The only thing that matters, the thing that I can’t resist, is an older man,” I say before rolling over and closing my eyes. I bite back a smile until I hear him turn the lamp off and walk out. And while I still feel pretty crummy, I’m pretty sure I fall asleep still smiling.