Page 250 of Mad Girl

I watched him disappear inside the house with tears of regret stinging my eyes. Why did I always have to be such a bitch?

But also: why couldn’t he just be honest with me?

You peered at me in the dark. “You didn’t make up with him, did you?”

I pushed up from the bench. “Nope.”

“By the way,” you said, hot on my heels, “thanks for ditching me back there.”

“You were preoccupied.”

“That girl approached me.”

I turned, walking up the stairs backward, gripping the rail. “What’d you think of her? Hot, right?” I said it to bait you. And if you’d said yes, I’d have probably cried again.

You followed me closely. “Actually, the primary word that kept leaping to mind was vapid.”

“You’re only saying that so I won’t get jealous.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true. Besides, I wasn’t the one locked away with a boy all night. If anyone should be jealous, it’s me.”

I grinned. “Aww, I didn’t realize you wanted to get Willoughby alone that badly.”

“You’re hilarious,” you said, reaching past me for the doorknob. “But Willoughby couldn’t handle me.”

My mouth went dry, heat pooling low in my stomach. I wanted to challenge this assertion. See if I could handle you.

Your face came thrillingly close to mine as you pushed the door open, and my heart throbbed. My stupid, aching heart. Which somehow, despite all the shit it’d been through that night, still functioned. Lightly, you nudged me back, fingers pressed to my bare waist, saying, “You’re glassy-eyed. Get inside. Let’s get you some water.”

Was I glassy-eyed? Or just really turned on?

We entered the house, the kitchen dark, save for the soft glow of the light Nic had left on over the stove. You set the alarm while I went straight to that cabinet where he kept the Johnnie Walker.

You came up behind me, snatching the bottle from my hand. “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not doing that again.”

I twisted around, reaching for it. “I want to drink it, not pour it out.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Well, you’re not doing that, either.”

“You can’t stop me.”

You lifted an eyebrow. “I absolutely can.”

“Stop being a dick, Casey, and give me the bottle. I’ve had a really shitty night, okay?”

“You need a cuddle,” you said, gaze softening, “not another drink.”

“A cuddle? Like I’m five? That won’t help.” Secretly, though, the idea of your body wrapped around mine thrilled me.

You brushed your thumb across my chin. “Sure it will,” you said softly.

“No,” I said, voice catching on the word. “Willoughby and I are done.”

“That idiot ended things with you tonight?” you demanded.

“It was my decision,” I said with a shrug. “He can’t handle the real me.” I’m too much.

I pulled off my coat, draped it over the back of a stool, then hopped on the island, legs dangling as I watched you put the scotch back.