Chapter 2
He’s not drunk. Not really.
He’s buzzed.
She is drunk.
Not blackout or incoherent.
But definitely drunk.
“This is so good,” she moans through the third massive bite of the burrito he’d ordered for her as they walk down the street toward her apartment.
He ignores the shot of arousal that careens through him at the sound and focuses on getting her home in one piece.
The same arousal that had him avoiding moments like this in the last few months, once he knew for sure that he wouldn’t be sticking around LA much longer.
But he figured that tonight would be okay. He’d go to her party, say his goodbyes and that would be that. A what might have been would turn into a never was and he could get on with his life.
Instead, he’s walking her home.
He’s been there before.
They’ve worked together on more than one project over the last five years and spent more than one night sitting silently for hours, headphones on, as they both typed away at their dissertations, stopping every once in a while to read a snippet of an argument out loud to make sure it wasn’t completely inane after looking at it for way too long.
She stumbles a little bit on the heels she’s been balancing on all night despite what he suspects was mostly straight vodka in her Dirty Shirleys and the tequila shots that they’d downed together when not one damn person in her life could be assed to show up for her.
The story had come pouring out of her after the second shot.
And it’s complete fucking bullshit.
It’s one thing if you don’t have anyone to show up – that sucks in a different way, and he’d know – but having people you love just blow off the biggest night of your life?
Fucking assholes.
“Do you want a bite?” she asks, somehow managing to smoothly step in front of him, despite the stumble, offering up the nearly demolished burrito.
She walks backward on those heels for a couple of steps before she catches her foot in a crack in the concrete and she’s about to careen down to the sidewalk when he reaches out and catches her around the waist.
Bianca looks up at him wide-eyed, her mouth open in a surprised O shape. “You saved me. Now you need to have some burrito, as a reward.”
She lifts it toward his mouth and yeah, he might as well.
He leans down, holding her eyes with his, and takes a bite, letting the spice of the chorizo sit on his tongue for a second.
She’s right, it’s fucking good, almost as good as the feeling of her body pressed against his.
Sometimes he forgets how small she actually is.
Her presence in his life was so infuriatingly massive, it’s hard to remember that she just barely tops five feet, that without those killer heels, she barely reaches his shoulder even though he’s not an especially tall guy.
“You’re right,” he agrees, pulling his gaze away from hers and taking a step back, letting his hands fall to her hips just long enough to make sure she’s steady on her feet again, before letting go entirely.
“About what?” she asks, her brow doing that adorable furrow it does whenever she’s genuinely confused. It’s not something that happens often.
“The burrito is good.”
“I know!” she exclaims, taking off down the street, and he stumbles forward, trying to keep up. How the hell is she running drunk in those shoes? “I’m not gonna remember, you gotta write it down.”
“Write what down?”
“The name of the food truck,” she calls back over her shoulder as they make it to her apartment building.
She’s on the second floor and he hustles forward to make sure he’s right behind her as she climbs the stairs that run up the side of the building, and he does his best to not appreciate the view too much.
He doesn’t completely succeed.
Xavier’s always had a weakness for curvy girls, but curvy girls who are as smart as him, smarter actually, if he’s being honest?
He never stood a chance.
“You good?” he asks as she attempts to fit her front door key into the lock.
“I’m drunk and uncoordinated,” she mumbles, trying and failing for a second time.
“Sober enough for six-syllable words,” he shoots back, reaching to take the key from her. In a flash he has the door open and she slips inside, pulling him in behind her.
“Shut the door!” she scolds.
Oh right, her cat.
The door clicks closed behind him, her gray cat safely curled up, fast asleep, on its bed beside her plush green couch. He remembers when she got the little thing as a kitten and it’s barely bigger than it was back then.
“Where’s the roommate?”
He has a vague recollection of her roommate being a singer-songwriter type trying desperately to cling to the dream in between waitressing gigs.
“Julie?” Bianca says, falling into the soft-looking leather armchair, kicking her shoes off and letting out a little sigh. “She booked a tour, opening for Mari Martin.”
A dream that’s apparently coming true.
“Whoa, that’s big.”
A wide smile blooms across her face and he can’t help but smile back. “It’s awesome. She’s gonna be huge just like she always wanted.”
“That’s why she wasn’t there tonight?” he asks.
“Yeah, at least she has a good excuse. Sorry, can’t make your dissertation celebration, but I’ll dedicate my set to you tonight in front of eighty thousand people is so much better than . . .” She trails off.
He finally crosses the room and perches on the edge of her couch, leaning forward on his elbows so he can look her in the eye. “I’m sorry they all bailed.”
She shrugs. “It’s whatever.”
“No, it’s not. It’s shitty,” he argues and as soon as the word crosses his lips, he can’t stop the rest. “I haven’t known you as long as they have, but in the last five years, I’ve seen you jump at the drop of a hat for all of them, constantly running around for their shit and they couldn’t show up for you tonight? You deserve better.”
With a heavy sigh, she waves a hand in the air and stares up at the ceiling.
She’s trying not to cry again, just like she did back at the bar when her friends and family dipped.
He hates it. Hates that he can’t reach out and pull her into his arms and hold her close, and if he can’t take the pain away, at least ease it a little.
“You know what’s funny? I know why they didn’t come tonight.”
“You do?”
“They don’t care about this.”
“They don’t care?”
“They care about me , I know that. They love me as much as I love them, but they don’t care about this.
It’s just something about me that none of them understand.
They understand engagement parties and showers and bachelorette weekends and destination weddings and gender reveals and fuck, they even get divorce bar crawls, but .
. . this? It’s just a thing to them. They don’t think it’s the same or that it’s as important as their stuff was, so it was just easy not to come tonight. ”
“That’s bullshit.”
“I mean, is it? It’s a piece of paper. Just like the last two I got, maybe a little bit fancier, a lot more expensive, but it’s not . . .”
And he can’t stop himself, he reaches forward and grabs the hand she’s waving in the air trying to come up with a word that’ll solidify the argument that he’s really sure that she doesn’t actually believe. And if she does believe it, shit, he might make it his life’s work to convince her otherwise.
“It’s bullshit,” he repeats, running a thumb along her knuckles as she holds tight to his hand. “They love you and this is your dream and they don’t get to decide that it’s not important.”
“You know what’s extra shitty about it?” she asks him and he’s relieved that she’s finally agreeing with him.
“What?”
“If I was getting engaged tonight they would have shown up. Every single one of them would have made sure to be there. My sister would have found a babysitter. Frankie would have made sure she wasn’t on a call with Japan and Chloe would have told Josh they had plans tonight and Isobel and Erik wouldn’t have felt like they could no-show without even giving me a decent excuse.
They would have all been there, even if they hated the guy, even if they thought I was giving up my dreams for him, even if they had to reschedule all kinds of stuff and shell out an absolute shit ton of money just like I did for them, because nothing would be more important than being there for me in that moment.
Because that’s what friends do. That’s what I’ve done for them.
But it’s just a stupid piece of paper they don’t really understand or give a shit about, so it was just easy to not come. ”
“That’s . . .” He trails off, with absolutely no idea what to say. He wants to disagree with her, but she’s probably right. He doesn’t know any of those people beyond her brief mentions of them over the years, but right now he loathes every single one of them.
“It really is,” she agrees, despite his lack of eloquence.
She sits back in the chair, her hair a wild mess, the silk of her tank top shifting around those curves he’s always found way too tempting for his sanity, and her hand is still in his, holding on tight.
As his thumb slides softly over her knuckles one last time, he stares at that hand, so much smaller than his, her fourth finger bare, and he says the absolute stupidest thing he possibly could.
“We should get engaged.”
Bianca lets out a humorless snort, but when he doesn’t answer her, his mouth dry, his throat tight, she looks away from the ceiling to meet his eyes with hers.
“You’re serious?”
Panic. Absolute sheer panic fires through his entire being. What . . . how . . . shit . . . what the hell is he doing – but his mouth is still running way ahead of his brain and there is no stopping it now.
“No! Yes, I mean . . . not actually engaged. We should just tell everyone we are. Teach them a damn lesson.”
A squeaky sort of laugh escapes from her throat. “They’d lose their minds. Just spring it on them, like, ‘Hey guys, I’m getting married and you don’t even know the guy.’ Absolute nuclear meltdown. It’d be hilarious.”