I scroll to the top of the thread and land on the photo of Xander with Cardi B.
“I still don’t understand how you were at a Cardi B gig,” I say, more to the photo than to the man standing in front of me. He laughs at this. That full-body, deep and husky one. “You go to gigs?”
“Keep scrolling,” he says. I start scrolling, but the tiny words blur on the screen. Why does he want me to read the messages I sent him when I was in the Uber? After I sent him a screenshot of Morgan 2.0, who I would (sigh) not be sleeping with, he texted back and said, “You’re so welcome,” to which I texted back and said, “Why am I thanking you?” to which he texted back and said, “That guy doesn’t know how to satisfy you,” to which I barked a laugh in the back of the Uber before texting back, complete with eyeroll emoji, “What? And you volunteeryourself as tribute?” I threw in a laughing emoji and proceeded to put my phone in my bag, extremely satisfied with my response.
Instead of rereading this, I shove Xander’s phone back into his hands. He takes it.
“Your point?” I say.
He studies me. Again with the staring. I widen my eyes and lean in, imitating him.
“Holy shit, you’re drunk,” he says, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s delighting in the discovery.
Cat’s out the bag. Alcohol’s out the bag too.
“If finding out my dad is getting married in a few weeks and then proceeding to drink a bottle of Tito’s with Emily while she forces me to do living room karaoke all afternoon,” I say, like I’m a mumble rapper, words just blending in together, “then yeah, I’m drunk.” This time I over pronounce everything to within an inch of being equally unrecognizable.
His eyes roam my face at this admission. Shit. I hold my breath, hoping that if I don’t move, he won’t ask about why my dad getting remarried drove me to day drink. While our chemistry might be repeating itself like the dodgy half-eaten burrito you can’t help but take a bite of the next morning after a particularly ambitious night at the bar, there’s absolutely no need toconnectwith him.
Then he makes the right decision by cocking his eyebrows and saying, “What song?”
“ ‘Can’t Fight the Moonlight,’ ” I say, straight-faced. Daring him to make fun of me. “Want to know a secret?” I lean forward, not realizing how close we’ve actually been this whole time, because now, I can practically taste his neck. Sweet and salty.
“Sure.” He tilts his head ever so slightly to me, and I feel his breath hit the shell of my ear. It sends shockwaves through me.
With Tito’s running through my veins, my filter is nonexistent, and I let out a squeal as my body squirms and I jump back, the movement causing my bag to pull me off balance. Again. This time, instead of watching and waiting to see if my body will recenter itself, Xander decides intervention is necessary and puts his hands on my shoulders, steadying me.
“What was that?” he says, still holding me. It has the centering effect my balance is incapable of giving me right now. Rock solid.
“What are you talking about?” I say, playing dumb, which seems to pair perfectly with vodka on the rocks.
“The squeal?” He must decide that I’m capable (just) of holding myself up because he lets go of me.
“A bug. Landed. On me,” I say, impressed with my improv.
He bends down so his head fills my vision, curls curling, and says, “And the secret?”
“Wine,” I breathe out in a terrible whisper. This time unable to hide my amusement. “I’m getting you drunk.”
I start to stomp toward the building, and this time, I am nimble like a dancer because I do not stumble, sway, or struggle to put one foot in front of the other. I’m basically sober at this point. All the more reason to open that bottle of wine. I don’t plan on nursing a hangover before falling asleep.
“I’m getting you water,” he says, and I turn around in dramatic fashion and find him assessing me. I stomp back a few steps so I’m standing in front of him.
“Whatever,” I say, pulling on his T-shirt sleeve to bring him in line with me. He reaches over and hooks his fingers under the strap of my bag, slipping it down my arm and slinging it over his. This catches me by surprise in the sense that no man hasever carried my bag for me. “What. Are you doing?” I say aloud, unable to process my shock internally.
“Carrying your bag,” he says, shrugging like he does it all the time. “I fear yourmagnumof wine is trying to take you out.”
“Chivalry’s not dead,” I say, like I know what the latest reports are on chivalry. Because I sure as shit don’t know from firsthand experience.
“No, it’s in the kitchen where you ghosted it,” he says, fucking flawless with his comeback as ever.
“You know there’s too smart. And Ifearyou just crossed that line,” I say looking over at him, one eyebrow cocked. He tips up one side of his mouth in a half smile. Almost apologetic. Like he’s acknowledging he can’t help being this clever.
“I’m not just going to get you legless, Miller. I’m going to ply you with so much wine it’ll render you speechless,” I say, vowing to get Xander so drunk, I have the final say.
“Red or white?” he says, accepting my challenge.
Bring it on.
