Tristan sighs deeply. “You’re going to have to apologize to my entire family when I prove it.”
“Ifthat happens, I’ll do it,andI’ll even make my brothers do it. That’s how sure I am.”
I should probably stop talking since it’ll be a cold day in hell before either of my brothers apologizes to anyone, let alone a Stone.
I’ll at least encourage it.
And I’m sure I’ll be told I’m nuts and need to see the world for what it is.
“I look forward to that day,” Tristan says with a smirk. He knows exactly what I know about that possibility.
I look back out the window and thank my lucky stars that we’re on my road now. At least I can get out of this car and regret all my life choices tomorrow morning.
He starts to make the turn onto my driveway, and I remember that this is Tristan, and he can’t drop me off. “Stop!” I say quickly.
“What?”
“Drop me off here. At the end of the driveway!”
He stops the truck and looks at me, eyes wide for a heartbeat. “You’re kidding. You’re shit-faced. I’m not dropping you off at the end of the damn driveway.”
“Well, you’re not taking me to the door. My brothers were drinking, and God only knows if they’re home. My dad is definitely home and has a shotgun at the ready. You can’t risk it.”
Panic builds. They’ll blow a fuse. It doesn’t matter that Tristan is a good guy. That we have this…truce of sorts. None of that matters to my brothers and definitely not to my father. I already had to fight with them about when my truck broke down—adding a drunken night when I was supposed to drive will be the spark that lights up the inferno.
No. I’m not doing this.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say quickly and then lift the lock on the door and push it open.
I, of course, in my drunken idiocy, do not unbuckle my seat belt as I try to exit the fucking truck and am stuck.
My night is a series of bad decisions.
“For the love of God,” Tristan mutters as I fumble for the button to free myself.
I manage to hit it, and the seat belt loosens while I’m pretty much hanging out of the truck, but still halfway in.
My dignity is partially spared by the fact my feet do hit the side rails and I don’t tumble to the ground, as Tristan is in front of me.
His hands are on my waist, and I hold on to his broad shoulders. “Steady,” he says as he lifts me up slightly and puts me on the ground, my back against the truck.
“I should go,” I whisper.
“I’m not letting you walk drunk. So, whatever idea you had about running off isn’t going to happen.”
I look at the headlight beams, like beacons shining toward the front of the house, where my parents’ room is.
“Shut the truck off then.”
“Lark.”
“Please,” I beg. “I promise, I’ll stay here, but we have to be discreet. I really don’t want to be responsible for anyone killing you. It would be a lot of cleanup.”
He snorts a laugh. “I’d worry more about anyone coming up against me.”
He’s such a guy.
“Yes, I am,” he responds.
