7. Rosalyn

SEVEN

ROSALYN

"This is for you." Hannah holds out a bottle of champagne.

"Oh, you don't have to…" I try to refuse. She's already given us a bigger tip than the last two events combined.

"I must. We have too much left, and your team killed it tonight." She practically shoves the bottle into my hands.

Reluctantly, I accept the champagne. "Well, thank you. It was an easy event to work."

It really was. No one was rude. Even the drunk people were friendly. And everyone loved the food.

"Glad to hear." Hannah smiles. "Now excuse me while I go wrangle everyone who's still left." She shakes her head. "Swear they'll be here another two hours."

Darkness has completely fallen outside, and the inside of the house, even though everyone has mostly stayed outside, is set for the party mood—all the lights are on low, even in the kitchen.

I eye the bottle.

It's awfully tempting. Especially after the sudden guest appearance today.

Presley, the only one of my crew still here, takes the bottle from my hands and yanks the cork out .

The pop is loud in the quiet house.

I laugh. "Thirsty?"

"Boss." Presley lifts her brows. "If you don't drink this willingly, I'm going to waterboard you with it."

I grimace, imagining bubbles up my nose. "Fine."

She nods and pulls a coffee mug out of the cupboard.

Presley fills it, then hands it to me. "I know the boss lady gave it to us to drink, but this way, guests who leave won't think you're getting drunk on the job."

"I knew I liked you," I tell my employee before taking a sip.

Her expression turns smug. "Obviously."

I take another, larger, sip. "You having some?"

Presley shakes her head. "I gotta drive home."

"Oh, duh." I knew this.

Usually we ride together in my catering van, but with the location of this house, it made sense for Presley to pick me up on her way over and put all the food in the back of her vehicle. And since we don't both need to be here for the final cleanup, I'm just going to catch an Uber home.

"Plus," Presley starts, putting the leftover food into containers, "booze isn't my drug of choice. And I got a brownie at home calling my name."

I snort. "Maybe sneak a little to-go container of the apps into your bag. You might need it later."

Presley presses a hand to her chest. "Best boss ever."

I lift my mug of champagne in a mock toast.

We pack up the food.

I take another drink.

We load the dishwasher.

Presley refills my mug when I'm not looking.

We hand-wash the pots and saucepans.

I have some more bubbly.

We unload and reload the dishwasher.

I send Presley home. And I polish off my mug.

Leaning against the counter, waiting for the dishwasher to complete its cycle, I eye the bottle on the island next to my empty mug.

The bottle is half-gone. I'm more than half-buzzed. But…

I press my lips together and close the distance.

Knowing it's probably a bad idea, I pour some more champagne into my mug.

I'm not driving.

I shouldn't have to interact with anyone else tonight.

I can have a little more.

I stop pouring when my mug is a third full. But then a glass slides across the countertop.

It's a low-ball glass, empty except for a single ice cube, telling me it used to be filled with some sort of hard liquor.

Surrounding the glass are long, masculine fingers.

I don't have to look farther to know whose hand it is.

I don't have to, but I can't help it.

Muscular forearms.

White sleeves rolled up.

Biceps bunched under the bright material.

I drop my eyes back to the glass in front of me.

His fingers flex, twisting the glass on the counter. "Unless you prefer to drink alone."

Nathan's voice is quiet, meant just for me.

And god dammit, I shouldn't.

I really, truly shouldn't.

But I have just enough of the golden liquid flowing through my veins to not care about the consequences.

So right now, at this exact moment, I don't care if this is the worst idea I've ever had. Right now our childhood history doesn't matter.

Tonight we can be Rosalyn and Nate. Two adults, sharing a drink.

I tip the bottle.

A rumble rolls out of Nathan's chest. "There's a good girl."

I almost moan.

Why is that so hot?

And does he talk like this to everyone?

I pour the rest of the champagne into his glass.

It's too full. An absurd pour. But I can't be tempted with more than I already have. And I can't function with him saying stuff like good girl in this dimly lit kitchen.

Setting the bottle down, I fortify myself to look up and meet Nathan's eyes.

And I have to stop myself from throwing a fit when I finally do.

How is he hotter every time I see him?

I don't know what happened to his suit jacket, but it's gone. And along with rolling up his sleeves, he's undone his bow tie, and his shirt is unbuttoned low enough to see that ridge between his pecs.

Does he know what he looks like?

Did he leave his bow tie hanging like that just to tempt me to pull him close?