She studies me for a long moment. Then suddenly she leans across the seat and grabs the front of my shirt. “Come here,” Rae says.
I already know exactly what she’s about to do. Sure enough, she leans in, clearly aiming for my mouth. I catch her wrist gently and guide her back toward her seat. “No,” I tell her.
She blinks at me. “…no?” Rae asks.
“No,” I repeat.
She frowns. “Why not?” Rae asks.
“Because you’re drunk,” I say.
Her eyes narrow slightly. “I am a little drunk,” Rae admits.
“Exactly,” I reply.
She crosses her arms. “Well that’s annoying,” Rae says.
“You’ll survive,” I tell her.
For about thirty seconds she sits there sulking dramatically. Then she tries again. This time her hand slides slowly across my thigh. I grab it immediately. “Rae,” I say.
“What?” she asks.
“No,” I tell her again.
She groans loudly. “You are being extremely difficult right now,” Rae complains.
“You’re drunk,” I remind her.
“So?” she says.
I keep my eyes on the road. Then she slowly leans sideways until her head rests against my shoulder. Ten minutes later her breathing slows. By the time we pull into her driveway, Rae is completely asleep.
I shut off the truck and glance down at her. Her hair has completely escaped the messy bun now, spreading across my shoulder. Her hand is still tangled in my shirt.
And despite everything, a small smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. “Trouble,” I murmur quietly. Then I lift her into my arms and carry her toward the house.
The farmhouse is dark when I climb the porch steps with her. The porch swing creaks softly in the night breeze, the chains swaying a little as I brush past it. I notice it automatically. I replaced those chains three nights ago after finding one cracked almost all the way through.
Rae doesn’t notice any of that. She’s completely dead weight in my arms, her head tucked against my chest, breathing slow and even as I nudge the front door open with my boot.
Inside, the house settles into quiet around us. The dogs lift their heads the second we step inside. Moose gets to his feet first, his tail wagging slowly when he recognizes me. Daisy follows a moment later, padding closer with cautious curiosity.
“She’s fine,” I murmur to them.
Moose sniffs my leg, then Rae’s boot, then gives a satisfied huff before wandering back toward the couch. Apparently the animals have accepted me at this point.
I carry Rae upstairs.
Her room smells faintly like her shampoo and laundry soap, mixed with that earthy scent that seems to cling to everything in this house. Moonlight spills through the window across the bed, turning the sheets silver.
I lower her carefully onto the mattress. For a moment she doesn’t move. Then she rolls onto her back with a soft groan.
“…Cole?” Rae murmurs.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“The room's spinning,” she says.
