22. Renee

“You doing okay?” he asks.

We aren’t in his car anymore, so his concern can’t be for the pristine leather seats or the exquisite dustlessness of his dashboard.

I nod, but the timing isn’t great since the elevator has just settled on our floor. When it lurches, I stumble and he pulls me against him. Against his hot, rock-hard body.

Maybe I moan. Maybe he notices. Maybe he lets me go. But that isn’t going to be the story that sees me through my next bubble bath.

When I stand straight and trip my way out of the elevator to Sutton’s apartment, Weston follows behind me. Close. Very close. Hand on the small of my back kind of close.

And when I lean to try to unlock Sutton’s apartment, my forehead bumps the door and I have to squint with one eye to see straight enough to input the numbers on the keypad. It takes a few tries, but eventually, I get it right and the door swings open.

I’m barely two steps into the foyer when the nausea hits and I sprint for the bathroom. Well, I try to sprint. But I trip on the hardwood where it meets the tile, somersault forward, and end up crawling the rest of the way to the toilet.

I hear his footsteps and a weary sigh as he follows behind. I’m on my hands and knees at the porcelain throne and my world is spinning… when I feel something. It takes me a moment to process what it is, and even then, I can’t quite believe it’s happening.

Weston Scott is holding my hair.

I’d be amazed if I wasn’t busy throwing up everything I’ve drank in the last decade. It’s probably the kindest anyone’s ever been to me. Certainly the kindest he’s ever been.

But wait—there’s more! crows the imaginary game show announcer in my head. When I finish, he hands me a wet washcloth, then promptly takes it back when he realizes I’m in no fit state to use it and does the job himself.

He’s tender. Delicate. I try to focus on his soft eyes as he cleans my lips, then tilts a bottle of mouthwash up to help me rinse the taste of vomit out of my mouth.

After I’ve cleaned up and spit again, I look at him as he sits beside me with his back against the bathroom wall. He really is gorgeous. The multiples of him I was seeing back at the bar have settled back down into one square-jawed, green-eyed beauty. It’s the way he’s gazing at me that really does it, though. Like he’s sheathed his fangs, just for a little while.

My voice comes out in a pitiful croak. “How come you act like such an asshole when there’s this nice guy inside of you?”

“I don’t want word to get out.” His smile is shockingly gentle. “Think of the stalkers that would come out of the woodwork if someone starts telling people I’m a nice guy.”

“I get that.”

I really do, albeit in my own way. I don’t want him to ever know who I really am. My last name. The family. It’s not me anymore.

He chuckles. “Did you drink all the alcohol in the bar?”

“Sure as hell feels like it.” My stomach is calmer now, but I don’t want to risk him seeing me throw up again. The first time was mortifying enough.

“I get that. Been there, too.”

“How do you have the time, what with all the damsel saving?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “It’s been a while since I’ve done any saving. Damsel or not.”

We’re both quiet for a minute. “Are we being nice to each other?” I blurt suddenly.

“Nah. You’re just imagining things because you’re drunk. We can go back to our normal fire-and-brimstone, piss-and-vinegar act in the morning.”

“Imagining things. Yes. That’s what I’m doing.” I fall quiet and gnaw at my lip for a second before risking a glance up at him again. “Thank you for bringing me home. If you hadn’t… I don’t know. Just, thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He sighs as he slumps down to get more comfortable. “If it’s alright with you, I’m gonna sit here for a little while. Just to make sure you’re alright before you fall asleep.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “That’s alright with me.”

He grins. “Cool. So…”

“So…” I mimic. I grin back at him. His teeth are really very white.

“You never told me where you’re from.”

“You mean, while I was stalking you, I forgot to tell you I was from Chicago?”

“Chicago. The city of sausages. Nice town.”

“I think you’re the only one who calls it that,” I say with a laugh and a wrinkled nose. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“How do you keep your beard like that?”

He laughs and rubs his cheek with the backs of his knuckles. “Like what?”

“You know, five-day-sexy-stubble instead of six-day-dirty-beard.”

He chuckles again. I really could fold into that sound, wrap it around myself like a blanket and snuggle up. “Beats me. Genetics, I guess. I just shave when it starts to itch.” He glances down. “Why? Does it bother you?”

“God, no,” I blurt a little too enthusiastically. I clear my throat. “Nothing about you bothers me. Except how much you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Oh? You could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m sitting on a bathroom floor with you to make sure you don’t pass out in a puddle of your own vomit. If that’s not friendship at the very least, I don’t know what is.”

“Fair enough. I’ll try to return the favor someday.” I smile thinking about it. “I think I would like to see you drunk. Maybe you’d be a little bit loosened up. Not so frowny.”

He cocks his head and stares at me with one narrowed eye. “Frowny?”

“Yeah. Frowny. Grumpy. Sourpuss. Take your pick.”

“I guess all those beat ‘asshole.’”

“Well, if the shoe fits…” I giggle softly before it fades away. My eyelids feel heavy all of the sudden. I let my head fall back against the wall.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

I sigh and get ready to start the process of getting upright again. But before I can, I feel it again—Weston’s hands on me.

He scoops me up, one arm under my back and another cupped under my legs, and picks me up like I weigh nothing at all. He smells so good, stronger than ever, and his body is sun-warmed granite. I just barely resist the urge to rub my face against his pecs.

We bump and glide our way to the bedroom. He sets me down delicately on the mattress, then arranges the covers on top of me.

“You might be the most perfect guy I’ve ever met,” I mumble. I didn’t really mean to say it out loud, but the line between thoughts and spoken sentences is very thin right now.

“Trust me, I am not.” But he is the guy who sets a glass of water by the bed along with the phone he’s retrieved from my purse. “You need anything, you call me, okay? I’m just down the hall and I’ll come right back. It won’t take ten seconds.” He holds my phone in front of my face to unlock it and taps the screen a few times. “My number is in there now. Use it if you need it.”

It’s such a weirdly tender offer from a guy who has been nothing but an asshole to me since we met. But before I can tell him how much it means to me…

He’s gone.