Seriously, though. I’ve known horses back home who can probably kiss better than that.Horses.
“What the actual fuck?” I yelp indignantly, leaping off the sofa and rubbing furiously at my lip. “What do you think you’re—”
“Sorry. I’m sorry.”
Mr. 3.5 is sitting up on the sofa, with his head in his hands and a greenish tinge to the small amount of skin I can see under that infernal beard.
Well, at least he’s apologizing. That’s something, I suppose.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, finally looking up at me, warily. “But, look, I’m not… I’m not going to sleep with you. I’m very grateful for the ride home and everything, and I’m… I’m really flattered, you know? But it’s just not happening, okay?”
“Wh…what?”
It’s not often that Lexie Steele finds herself lost for words, but for a second I just stand there gaping at him like he’s speaking another language.
Sleep with him? Does he seriously thinkIwant to sleep withhim?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, finally finding my tongue again. “I know you’re drunk, but are you actuallyinsane?”
“Look, I know what everyone thinks,” 3.5 says, holding up a hand as if he’s heard all this before. “But they’re wrong, okay? I’m not like that. I don’t pick up women in bars. And I don’t sleep with people I barely know. I’m sorry.”
He makes it to the end of this astonishing little speech before closing his eyes again wearily and slumping back on the sofa, while I continue to stand there with my mouth open and my mind whirring as I try to make sense of what I just heard,
Did I just get rejected by a drunk guy in pool slides? Me, Lexie Steele, three-time winner of the Miss Western Scotland competition, and the Highlands’ best-know Junior Pageant Queen? (Well, “best-known” among people who follow child beauty pageants, obviously. Which isn’tthatmany people. But still.)
I have never been so insulted in my life.
“Excuse me,” I begin hotly, but 3.5 just raises a weary hand and flips onto his back, like a goldfish that’s given up on life.
“It’s okay,” he mumbles through a thick fog of whisky breath. “I get it a lot. I’m used to it.”
“Oh, Iseriouslydoubt that,” I say, looking pointedly at his once-black hoodie, which is now speckled with dots of vomit, from when he threw up on my feet earlier. For a man with so little going for him — well, other than the amazing house, obviously, and I’mstillnot convinced it’s really his — he certainly has a high opinion of himself. He must follow a bunch of those “self love” gurus on Instagram, or something. There’s just no other explanation, for his bizarre “rejection” of someone who, to be totally blunt, would be out of his league, even if shehadbeen coming on to him. Which, just for the record, I definitelywasn’t.
All I was doing was trying to help him. Trying to make sure he didn’t hurt himself in his stupid drunken stupor. Trying to be a good girl, and do the right thing for once, and what do I get in return? A shoe full of vomit, and a giant bruise to my ego. Which, it turns out, isn’tquiteas bulletproof as I like to pretend it is.
No, this is just not acceptable. Not in the slightest.
I consider waking 3.5 up, just so I can tell him that if anyone’s going to be rejecting anyone else around here, it’s going to beme, thank you very much. Or words to that effect. I’m sure I’ll come up with something suitably cutting once I get started.
As soon as I get close to him, though, I realize any attempt to wake 3.5 is going to be in vain. He’s fallen into a sound sleep, his head lolling back and his eyes tight shut, dark lashes fanned out against his skin. As I watch him, he murmurs something indecipherable, then shifts position on the couch. Now he’s facing me, his cheek resting against a cushion, and as I crouch down to make sure he’s still breathing, I’m struck by the shape of his lips, which are just visible through that bird’s nest beard of his. The beard is an abomination, sure, but the lips under it are full and pouting, smooth and curved up in a slight smile, even in his sleep. They’re really quite beautiful, in fact.
Why would you want to hide lips like that under a mess of hair?
I frown as a memory tugs at the corner of my mind, letting go almost as quickly as it came. Those lips remind me of someone, I’m sure. I just can’t remember who it is, or where I’ve seen them.
Have I met this guy somewhere before?
No. I can’t have. I’d remember it, I know I would.
I shake my head to release the weird feeling of déjà vu. Whoever it is he reminds me of, I’m unlikely to remember anytime soon, because now that 3.5’s safely on his side again, I think I’m done here.
Why should I stick around to babysit a grown adult, anyway? Especially not one who just insulted me?
Making up my mind, I pluck my bag off the marble floor, where I dumped it when we arrived, and rummage in it for my car keys. Behind me on the sofa, 3.5 mutters something else, and I hesitate for just a moment.
Maybe I should wait just a bit longer?
Just a few minutes, say, to make sure he really is okay?
