A whip around reveals the pool table with the leopard-print baize and the wall of vintage records behind it. My dad would die of mortification if he knew how many of his faves are decoration now.
Chuckling to myself, I get caught up in the hypnotic motion of the overhead fan circling endlessly, then realize that Zach’s voice is nearer than I thought but also farther away. I stumble off the stool but before I faceplant, he’s there to catch me.
Bah. “You suck, Zach!”
“Huh?”
“You suck! Being all tall and big and having a great core and balance. You know what else sucks? Why do women have to wear heels and not men? I have ten blisters, Zach. Ten. Where are your blisters?”
“What do blisters have to do with my core?”
“Maybe if I had a core, then I wouldn’t have blisters.” I wag a finger at him, unaware that he’s holding me in a dramatic swoop position. For the most part, I’m hella comfortable in his arms. “What do you have to say about that?”
“I say that you need to get into bed before you poke out my eye. I need 20/20 vision if I’m going to make it to the top, D.”
Something in his tone has me frowning.
“What about my blisters?” When I see his lips twitch, I slap a hand to my chest. “Are you laughing at me?”
“Nope. Not at all. Whereareyour shoes?”
“Somewhere between the sorority house and here. I tossed them out. Like I’d toss a man out of my hair. They’re in the wind. With my blood, sweat, and blister juice in them.”
“Great imagery, Denny. Come on. I’ll carry you to my SUV.”
“Nah. You were right about Pecan. I can walk,” I tell him even as he suddenly gets ten feet taller. My eyes bug. “When did you grow?”
“When you tried to sit on the floor,” he reasons with a smirk but doesn’t give me much time to argue when he hauls me in a fireman’s lift over his shoulder. “Night, Freya. Thanks for cutting her off.”
“You’re welcome, Zach.” She salutes cheerfully.
I lift my head to scowl at her but get caught up on the four versions of her in the wall of mirrors behind the liquor shelves. One of them gets a half-scowl. My aim shifts when he rests a hand on the backs of my thighs to keep me in place.
His fingers are really close to my?—
“Okay, we’re here.”
Shit. We are?
I squint at his SUV then huff as he maneuvers me into his ride. I find myself slouching over his center console, partially in my seat and partially in his. I blink up at the swaying worry beads I bought him when my mom took us to Greece after the divorce.
The glittery sandstone beads hang over his mirror, ones I liked the idea of him having close.
A part of me wonders if, whenever he’s driving, he thinks of me when he sees it.
I shouldn’t appreciate that he might, right?
When he opens his door, I accuse, “You’re tall again.”
“Because you’re lying down. Can I just say that I’m glad you don’t get drunk often? I forgot how you lose your bones when you drink.”
“They’re still there.” My tone’s solemn. “But they need a vacation because of the blisters.”
“The blisters. Right.” He clucks his tongue and manages to flop me over to my side of the SUV.
Yes. My side.
His ride, my side.
