4
Paige
THE ONLY THINGS I NEEDEDin life were books and a glass or three of white wine. I got over my disappointment about Riley leaving pretty quickly when I curled up on his leather couch in the living room with both of my favorite things in hand.
Halfway through my second glass and a bank heist gone horribly wrong, the front door slammed open. I leaped into the air, and my book went flying sans bookmark. Wine sloshed all over my Reading is Sexy T-shirt.
“Ffffuck me,” I growled between clenched teeth.
From my view on the couch, I couldn’t see who it was, but pots and pans clanked in the kitchen. Cabinets banged open and shut. The clatter rolled over the wooden floors and hammered echoes between my ears. Why didn’t everyone have a ‘Shh’ meter built inside them?
I rescued my book and empty glass from the floor then marched toward the kitchen. “Do you think you can be any louder?”
Sam whirled around and stumbled into the countertop. His eyes, the part not swollen shut from his shiner, were bloodshot. Completely wasted, though not enough to stop his gaze from raking up and down my body.
That same pulse I’d felt earlier sparked electrical currents from head to toe and gathered at my center. I cleared my throat, trying unsuccessfully to ignore that feeling, and crossed my arms over my chest. Crap. Why couldn’t I materialize a bra under my thin, now wet, shirt? Though earlier today I obviously hadn’t minded his hungry gaze. Of course, he hadn’t been drunk then, either.
“What’re you doin’ here?” he asked. “I thought you were out with Riley.”
“He had to go to work.”
“Fucking bastard.” He turned and swayed in the direction of the refrigerator.
Shaking my head, I came up behind him and pushed him onto a stool at the island in the center of the kitchen. The guy could barely walk, and I was in no mood for his deafening culinary skills.
“Tell me you didn’t drive like this,” I said.
He slumped over the island with his hands clasped together and glared at his bandaged knuckles. His long blond hair hung in his face, and it made him somehow look defeated.
“You’re not even old enough to drink yet, are you?” I asked, mistakenly leaning toward him. Alcoholic fumes burned my nasal passages, and I jerked back with a wince. “You’re what? Twenty?”
“I had a bad day,” he said, his voice low.
I flashed back to our time in the library earlier that afternoon and wondered if he was including that in his description. It had appeared he was enjoying himself just fine then.
“So you were going to make it better by being a shit-faced idiot?” I asked.
He pinned his red-rimmed gaze on me. “What are you, my mom?”
