"Hey, are you okay?" I ask.
"Umm, no I've had a pretty rough day."
She's in a plain black shirt—quite possibly mine—with no bottoms on, but her bikini top strings are poking out from the back of the collar and the front has tiny wet triangles. She has a bottle of wine open, and I don't see a glass anywhere.
"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask her.
The view before me is deceptive, because even though she's not wearing any pants, it's causing quite the predicament in mine.
"You better sit down for this," she warns.
Amelia pats her bed, and I feel like a vampire crossing the threshold of her restricted bedroom. I've never been inside before, but I'm not one to turn down an invitation of sitting on a woman's bed. Especially when she looks naked.
"I'm a little drunk," she admits, the fruity scent of her wine lingering on her breath. I enjoy the smell, and the dumber part of me is curious about how it tastes off her tongue. "I was in the pool…sorry I'm not wearing pants."
I try to keep my gaze on her face, not on her bare legs that are inches away from mine.
"What's going on?" I ask.
"Beckett came in today."
"To Roasted?"
"Yes."
"Oh shit, you don't say?"
"I saaaaaaaay," she slurs, and I try not to laugh. I've never seen her like this, and it's a bit comical.
"Tell me about it." I reach for the bottle of wine and realize it's empty. "How much have you had?"
"That bottle? The whole thing. The one by the pool? The whole thing."
"Jeez, when did you start?"
"Around the time I got home from work. It's been a consistent buzz ever since."
"Have you had any water?"
"Oh, I don't knowwww."
She flings herself backward on her bed and her thighs are exposed, along with the small triangle of fabric on her bikini bottoms. I literally have to force my eyes to look elsewhere. I can't be hypnotizing myself while sitting on her bed when she's intoxicated.
"So, what happened?" I ask.
"Beckett came in with hisfiancée."
"Fiancée?"
Even I'm shocked. I knew he was cheating on her, but who knew he'd propose within the last month of her moving out?
"Yep." She dramatically enunciates the P sound and I look behind my shoulder as she stares up at the ceiling. I expect tears to form any minute.
But they don't.
I believe most women would be sobbing right about now, if the love of their life cheated on them, dumped them, and got engaged.
"I'm sorry. I honestly don't know how to respond to that. Did you call him out? Punch the piece of shit?"
