Is it weird to be friends with someone whose dad has had his tongue in your mouth? My friend count might go back down to one, if so. Even if it’s been exactly a week since it happened. God, has it really already been a week? Why can I still taste him on my lips?
Halfway through my drink, I make myself cozy on the couch. Thankfully, the raunchy story time seems to be over, replaced by a game of what I think is poker. Some kind of card game, where the guys around the table are throwing down actual cash as bets.
I watch them for a while, cheering every time someone gets to scoop the giant pile of money into their lap. The cheater from earlier seems to be losing, because he’s in a really foul mood, and that makes me happy.I bet your girlfriend manifested that, jerk.
Mariah’s arms wrap around my neck and her sweet perfume floods my nostrils. She plops down next to me, squishing herself between my legs and the arm of the couch.
“Having fun, girly?”
I nod my head enthusiastically.
“Pizza will be here in ten minutes if you want some.”
“Oh god, yes,” I groan.
She grabs my hand and drags me toward the kitchen, my feet betraying me every step of the way as I fumble behind her. There are probably ten people crowding around the kitchen, waiting for their hero to bring the cheesy, bready sustenance to save them all. I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel the same way. I hadn’t realized how hungry I’d gotten until she said the word ‘pizza.’
I look toward the front door, willing the bell to ring just like everyone else is, and see Emmett pressing a girl up against the wall, kissing her like her tongue is made of oxygen and he can’t breathe without it.
“Do people have sex at these?” I ask no one in particular, the memory of Colt’s taste flooding my tongue.
A few people laugh, hard enough to tell me I just asked a really stupid question with a really obvious answer. Mariah just grimaces at me and nods, like she’s just as horrified by the idea as I am.
The doorbell rings and the poor delivery girl is practically ambushed by partygoers wanting their own pizza from the stack in her hands. I wait by the island counter as all of the pies make their way over, and stack two slices onto a paper plate after everyone’s grabbed their own, then stuff my face with the greasy, cheesy goodness.
When everyone is fed and filing out either in rideshares or with their designated drivers, I pull up a blanket on the couch and make myself at home, settling in and watching as the room tilts and twirls around me, until it all goes dark.
NINETEEN
Colt
“Good morning, Rowan,” I offer as I see my assistant enter the office.
I keep hoping that she’ll hit me with another ‘happy Monday, Mr. Fowler,’ but the words still haven’t come. Every day, it gets just a little bit harder to tolerate.
“Morning,” she says.
“Did you have a good weekend?”
“I did. I went to a party, actually.” A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth, mischief radiating off of her.
Trying – and failing – to hide my surprise, I mutter, “A party.”
“Mmmhmm. With some people from work. Emmett was there.”
“Was he.”
“Yup.” She pulls her tablet from her bag and swipes through some emails. “Ope, looks like you have some faxes I need to send.”
She turns on her heel and glides out of the room, taking my plastered-on mask of cool with her. What the fuck was she doing at a party? Did she drink? Did Emmett touch her?
I watch the door, waiting for her to come back into the room, tapping my foot on the ground. I interlock my fingers and prop my elbows on the desk in front of me. Emmett passes my door, and I shout for him to come in.
“What’s up?” He asks.
“I just wanted to know if you had a good weekend. I didn’t hear from you.”
“Yeah, sure, it was fun.”
