Page 83 of Wild Abandon

“It’s gorgeous,” he states. “The day I came to the ranch, you had it up, and the curls were falling down. It was pretty.”

From flush to blush, I feel my cheeks redden. So much for the girl who doesn’t blush. “I like your new look.” I gesture to the hair that is now sticking up a little in the back from where I ran my hand through it.

He smirks from the side of his mouth. “I heard women like a man with hair they can grab.”

And, now, my cheeks are insanely red, I’m sure. I lift my shot glass and drink it. Nate does the same.

We spend the next two hours drinking, listening to the band, and dancing. When we drink, we toast to something ridiculous, like our new hair or Uncle Jesse from Full House, or the fault line. When we listen, it’s with pointed ears. He asks me questions about music, pulling whatever knowledge he can from me, for a better understanding of what he’s listening to. And when we dance, it’s with a safe distance. No more intense holds or hair-tugging. We have found our rhythm. Two different pieces of music, playing side by side, not gelling together.

When we exit the cab at the Radisson, I trip over my heel, and Nate has to help me walk straight. I have a sense of déjà vu but know that I am far from drunk. I had a great time. I drank, I danced, I laughed, and I am deliciously buzzed. But not drunk.

“There she goes with the bom, bom, bom,” Nate starts singing. “Her hips, they sway with the bom, bom, bom.” His eyes are closed, and he is pretending he is the rapper who sings the verse, “It’s guerrilla warfare with her bom, bom, bom—ouch!”

I took my shoe off my wobbly foot and am hitting Nate in the chest with it. “You know the words?”

Nate is backing up and using his hands to block my assault on him. “I might have watched it once”—I hit him again—“or twenty times. Seriously, woman, put down the shoe!”

I hold it up over my head. “Or what?” I dare.

Nate looks at me, face stern, eyes hard, and his look is so serious that I think something really intense is about to pour out of his mouth.

“She’s so damn primal with her bom, bom, bom.” Nate has broken out into a full rap, singing loud and proud, with his arms stretched out and then crossing over his body, as rappers do. “Get nasty! I get loose! I get crazy! She’s so loose! It’s Master Craze, and the girl’s in a daze. I just can’t help myself.”

Even the homeless man on the corner is looking at Nate like he’s insane. It’s ridiculous and embarrassing.

And it’s so damn funny that I can’t help but laugh so hard that I have to wipe back tears.

“Come on, Flavor Flav.” I pull on his shirt and tug him through the doors.

We’re still laughing when we practically fall out of the elevator. He knows every word to that song by heart, and finally—thank God—he hits the final note as I am approaching my door.

When the light on the door turns green, I push the door open and then turn around to Nate. He’s still smiling from ear to ear.

“You’re a pretty good time, Nathaniel Teller.” I lean in like it’s a secret. “Don’t worry; I won’t tell anyone.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, Red.” His smile relaxes, and he takes a deep breath, his chest puffing out with the action. “I like hanging out with you.”

“Thanks. Same here.” I hope that didn’t come out as dismissive as it sounded in my head.

“I haven’t had fun in a long time.”

“That’s what friends are for, right?”

“Yes. Friends,” he says.

I start to close the door, but his hand rises up and holds it open.

“I…okay, I don’t want you to think it’s the booze talking, but I need you to know this. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a while. I mean it. And I know you should be in Tahoe this weekend, but I’m really happy you’re here with me.”

I lean forward and place a kiss on his cheek. “You’re my best thing, too, Nate.” I smile and back up, closing the door on a grinning Nate.

My best thing.

chapter SEVENTEEN

I woke up this morning with a pep in my step. San Francisco in the fall is glorious—less fog, hotter days. I’m feeling pretty jazzed about my plans for the day. I don’t know what Nate wants to do, and I don’t care. Today, I have my own activity planned.

I let him sleep in, assuming he has one hell of a Jack Daniel’s hangover to conquer. I knock on his door with my foot, a large shopping bag in one hand, and a smaller white bag and a coffee tray in the other.