CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Emery
I’m fresh out of the shower when the knock sounds at my door.
Not a polite knock.
Not a neighborly knock.
More of a slightly off-rhythm knock.
“Ugh,” I say to my reflection. My hair is piled messily on top of my head, my face is scrubbed free of makeup, and I’m wearing mismatched pajamas that consist of an old college T-shirt and sleep shorts that have seen way better days. “I don’t want any,” I mutter to myself.
The neighborhood kids and their beginning-of-school fundraisers are fine and all, but at this hour of night? Like, no. Just no.
The knock comes again, followed by a muffled, “I know you’re in there.”
Lucas.
What is it about his voice that sounds off? Disoriented.
He did something to his shoulder. That’s my first thought. My instinctive thought that has me rushing to the door and throwing it open.
Only to find Lucas standing there, barefoot and swaying just a little with one hand braced against the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
His hair is damp with waves all over the place like he ran his hands through it too many times.
His smile is crooked and bashful and entirely too dangerous.
And his eyes—those sapphire blue eyes—hold amusement and so much more as they greet me.
Oh.
That kiss we shared?
Oh no.
The one that knocked me off my feet and has had me avoiding him at all costs? Yeah, it just came back with a vengeance and then some.
So much for keeping my distance.
“Well, that’s a relief,” he says blinking slowly. “You’re home. Doc to the rescue.” He tries to punch his fist across his body like an atta girl and loses balance.
I fight a smile but it breaks through, and then I try to rein it in by sounding professional. “Is there something I can help you with at this hour?” I ask.
He shrugs.
And then giggles.
All six-foot-five inches and two hundred and thirty pounds of him . . . giggles.
I don’t even know what to make of it because of course, a part of me melts at him acting like this and making a sound like that.
A very small part.
“Just wanted to see what you were up to,” he finally says.
“At eleven-thirty at night?”
“Yep.” He gives an exaggerated nod that throws him off balance again.
“I thought you didn’t drink during the season?” I ask.
“I do. Occasionally. I mean if I can’t break one rule, I might as well break another,” he states matter-of-fact although it makes no sense to me.
“So, you got drunk.”
“Lightly,” he says holding up a finger. The slur of his words contradicts him. “Not irresponsibly. Just enough to make excellent decisions.”
That explains . . . a lot.
“That’s not reassuring.”
He grins. “You’re the one who answered your door. I mean, that’s encouraging, isn’t it?”
“Encouraging what though is the question,” I mutter.
I should close it. I should absolutely close it.
“Hi, Emery,” he says like he forgot that part. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world for him to be standing in my doorway, swaying slightly, smiling at me like I’m something he’s been looking forward to all day.
My damn heart trips over itself.
“Hi, Lucas. What are you doing here?” I ask, trying desperately not to be charmed by him, and already knowing whatever answer he gives me isn’t going to make this—him here, me resisting him—any easier.
“Hi,” he repeats softer this time, like he’s savoring the moment.
And that door I didn’t close? Yeah, it’s like he notices it all of a sudden and takes it as a victory and walks right inside.
The moment he’s in my place, he takes a long look around. He snorts at the lamp. Points to the pinata with a sound that’s close to reverence, and then turns to look at me properly in my mismatched pjs, damp hair, bare feet, and something in his expression softens.
“You look . . . comfortable,” he says.
“That’s the drunk version of telling me that I look like hell.” I snort.
“Strongly disagree,” he says shaking his head vehemently. He leans closer and then jerks his hands up, palms facing me. “Whoopsie. Was gonna touch you there but can’t do that. Gotta kept where it’s keep. Is that right? No. It’s not. But . . . gotta be professional and all that.”
“You call showing up at my door professional?” I tease.
“I, Lucas Hale, am trying very hard to respect your boundaries,” he says solemnly and then his shoulders sag. “It’s exhausting.”
Despite myself, a laugh slips out.
“See?” He points at me. “That’s so much better.”
“What is?”
“You not looking like you’re about to bolt.”
I cross my arms to prevent myself from reaching out and touching him. He’s adorable drunk. Nice. Sweet. Funny. It’s probably not a good thing for me to see him like this.
“You can’t just show up here and charm your way past everything.”
“Sure, I can. I’ve had years of charm practice.”
“Charm practice? That’s not helping your case any.”
“Do you know what helped my case though?” He raises his eyebrows and they both lift to different heights.
“What’s that?”
“That we kissed.”
“Oh.” I choke the syllable out.
“Are you denying it?” He mimics my posture—arms crossed, chin jutted out.
“No. We did, in fact, kiss.” It was . . . incredible.
“And how exactly would you rate the kissing technique? My kissing technique. I’ve heard it gets rave reviews,” he says and is dead serious.
I chuckle and hate that even that comment makes me like him more. “You’re not exactly supposed to talk about what past people have said.”
“We’re not children, Doc.”
“You are so going to regret this conversation when you’re sober.”
He purses his lips seconds before a smile crawls across them. “If I remember it.” He pauses. “So, on a scale of one to ten? Time’s a wasting here.”
“Lucas.” It’s supposed to sound exasperated but comes out more amused.
“Because I just keep thinking about doing it again,” he states unabashedly.
Me too.
“So? One to ten?”
“What if I say it needs improvement?” I ask just to mess with him, but I think I’m the one who gets played because he steps in closer to me, the muscle in his jaw pulsing, and every part of him tugging on that slow, simmering burn he’s caused within me.
“If you say that then you’re just tempting me to show you differently. Again.”
And I don’t know what my brain is trying to think because without thinking, my mouth says, “Needs improvement.”
Lucas’s eyebrows shoot up, and his lips curl in a grin. “Why, Emery Porter, I was not familiar with your game.” He pauses, then takes a step back. “That’s contradictory though. You say that but then walk away and—”
He sways again. “Whoa,” I say as instinct kicks in, and I reach out for him.
He jumps back. “No touching for you. Doctor-patient boundary in full effect here.”
“You’re going to fall, Hale.” I grab his arm and move him toward the couch.
“Ooooh, I love it when you ‘Hale’ me.” He holds his hands up. “Okay, Porter.”
“Sit before you crack your head open. That’s the last thing I want to have to explain to Coach.”
He obeys, surprisingly compliant, and drops to the couch with a pleased hum. “I like when you’re bossy.”
I take a step back to create some distance. “You don’t get to like things about me.”
“Well, I do. So, take that,” he says like a five-year-old.
And like a five-year-old on the other side of that argument, I ask, “What is it that you like about me?”
He tilts his head and studies me for a beat.
His lips are pursed and his glassy eyes are narrowed.
“I like the little line you get between your eyebrows when you’re concentrating.
I like your intelligence. How clearly driven you are because it takes guts to pick up and move to a new place without friends.
I love the little curls you get right here when you sweat.
” He gestures vaguely at his own forehead.
“Or how you pick up and put things back at stores with such care like they’re a prized possession even though they’re in the dollar bin.
And the way you pretend you don’t notice people, but really, you notice everything. ”
My chest tightens at his observations. The joke’s on me because that’s not what I was expecting. I was expecting the usual, boring response. Pretty. Smart. Good sense of humor. Not something like this.
“How do you even—”
“I notice things too,” he says proudly. Simply.
I swallow. This is dangerous. This version of him—loose, open, unguarded—is worse than confidence. Worse than flirting.
It makes me not want to walk away despite all the reasons I need to.
“You know,” he says, “we’ve both seen each other at our worst now.”
I snort. “You have not seen me drunk.”
He sobers just a fraction. “No,” he says quietly. “But I saw someone try to hurt you.”
Those words hit harder than anything else tonight. They’re a giant reminder of the type of man he is.
“I was so worried that night. I worried about taking a drugged girl to a hotel and how that could turn out for me. Big no-no. But all night—every sound, every time you moved—I didn’t know you, but I couldn’t sleep.
” He looks at me with clear eyes despite the alcohol.
“Could you imagine how that feels now that I do know you?”
I don’t trust myself to answer his question. Emotion swells in my throat, and my determination not to like him was just obliterated.
“Oh, I think I’ve had too much to drink.” He chuckles. “Your apartment is kind of spinning.”
“I’m sure it is.” I step toward him and hold out a hand. “C’mon. Let’s get you to your bed. No doubt you’re going to have a wicked hangover in the morning.”
“Party pooper,” he says but takes my hand and then walks crookedly across the hall into his own apartment.
His place is a mirror image of mine with much less color. It’s lived in, but in the way of a man who doesn’t collect things or maybe is worried that he’s not staying. When I guide him toward his bed and try to pull away, his arms come around me, warm and solid.
“Don’t go,” he murmurs.
I still and tell myself this is the last place I need to be. The last situation I need to put myself in . . . “I’m just getting you settled.”
When I look up at him, he smiles sleepily. “You’re very bossy when you care.”
“I do not—”
“You do care,” he says and sits down on the edge of the bed, my hand now in his. “Simon says pretending doesn’t make it go away.”
I blink. “Simon says what?” Are we playing the game now? I’m so confused.
“My new friend.”
“Not the game?”
That giggle again. He emits it and I can’t help but smile. “No silly. My new friend. He’s very small. I think eight or ten. He’s very wise and asks lots of questions.”
“Okay.” I draw the word out, confused but not wanting to ask.
“So, you’re going to be my date for the gala, right?”
That came out of the blue . . . and is nice but impossible. “I can’t. We can’t. You know that.”
“So, I’m just supposed to watch you in some slinky dress all night and not want you?”
“Wanting has nothing to do with a slinky dress,” I say. Or how sexy he’ll look in a tuxedo.
“Maybe if I make you jealous then you’ll want me back, huh?”
Jealousy not needed. Pretty sure I already do, and if the kiss didn’t cement it, tonight—him like this—sure did.
“Jealousy is a wasted emotion,” I murmur.
“Sounds like something Simon would say,” he mumbles. “C’mon, Doc. Don’t leave me.” He shifts to lie down and with one tug has me falling into bed beside him.
Just for a second.
I’m pressed up against him and before I realize it, he shifts over dramatically and shoves a pillow between us.
“What are you doing?” I laugh.
“Respecting your boundaries. No touching. No flirting. No kissing.” He turns on his side so that his cheek is pressing into the pillow, but his eyes are looking straight at me.
“That last one is killing me, Doc. Pretty sure you need to have your medical bag or whatever it’s called on standby in case I keel over from all this respecting of you. ”
“You’re being ridiculous, Lucas,” I say.
But that is what I want, right?
I should appreciate that he’s trying to do right by me. That I clearly drew a line when I walked away from our kiss the other night and that he’s respecting it.
He smiles at me. It’s sweet and soft and I want to sink into everything about him. He reaches out and puts his hand on the pillow between us. I link my fingers with his without thinking.
“This is way better than orange slices and Gatorade,” he murmurs.
“What?” I laugh. Orange slices and Gatorade?
He shakes his head ever so slightly. “Nothing,” he murmurs as his eyes begin to flutter closed.
Get up. Go home.
But I don’t listen to the voice in my head. The one of self-preservation. Instead, I lie there, wide awake, heart pounding, fully aware that this—him—is the problem.
Because now that I’ve seen this version of Lucas Hale? I don’t know how I’m supposed to resist him.