Barrett

By the time we break up the street ball in favor of water and food, I find Catarina sitting on the porch swing next to Stacie, several empty plastic shot glasses scattered at her feet. They’re looking chummy, and are both snort-laughing.

“Hey, Fox,” Catarina says, her smile loose and wonky. “Have you had one of Jackson’s shots?”

She had trouble with the transition from one s to the next, hinting that she’s had several of Jackson’s shots.

“I have indeed. Enough to know that one is too many.” I peg Stacie with a meaningful look. “How many has she had?”

Stacie gives me a sloppy shrug. “Four or five?”

Ah, hell.

“Okay, Kitty Cat. Let’s get you out of here.” I bend and take her hands. “Do you feel sick yet?”

“Not at all!” She stands, wobbles, and I support her.

“You mean not yet.” I hate to break it to her, but she’s not going to feel this good in a few hours.

Jackson climbs the porch steps, a look of concern on his face. “Uh-oh.”

“I’m told she’s had four or five of your shots.”

My buddy doesn’t laugh. He cringes. Then bends to look Catarina in the eyes. “I’m sorry, gorgeous. That’s a lot of Burke-bombers for any woman.” To me, he says, “I have a spare bedroom that’s free if you want to get her into bed. I mean to sleep.”

Catarina’s hands are rubbing my torso, her nose in my neck.

“I think I’ll get her home before something happens,” I tell him.

“Like puking in my rosebushes? Or on my shoes? Both have happened before.” He shrugs. “She’d have nothing to feel embarrassed about.”

“Yeah, but she would.”

“Bexley,” Stacie pipes up. “She’s classy.”

She is classy. And a hell of a lot different than the friends I have from Little Town. “Thank you for keeping her company, Stace, though you could’ve left out a few of the shots.”

“She’s looking forward to post-game sex,” Stacie says to me. “I told her how you boys are.”

“Let’s get you inside, too.” Jackson sends me a meaningful look and helps Stacie off the swing. “Not for sex. I have a slice of pizza with your name on it.”

“I like her,” Catarina tells me as we make our way across the yard.

I wave at the rest of the guys as they pass by. Joel takes one look at my girl and concludes, “Burke-bombers.”

“Stacie’s good people,” I tell Catarina.

“You’re good people. I want post-game sex.”

I laugh, a sad sound because sweet mercy, I want post-game sex with her. The idea of her this relaxed while naked is a tantalizing thought I’ll be sure to store in the spank bank. But…

“I don’t think tonight’s going to be the night, honey.”

“Why not?” she asks while I haul her a block to my car.

“I don’t want you to hate me in the morning.”

“I won’t. I can’t hate you. I thought I did but now I really like you. Really, really. Even though I don’t fit in with your friends and even though I’m too rich and even though I’m a snob.”

“You’re not a snob,” I tell her with a smile. “Snobs don’t know they’re snobs, so the fact that you pointed that out means it’s impossible.”

I unlock the car and help her sit but as I’m buckling her in, she grabs my neck and forces my attention on her.

“I’m glad we’re dating, Fox. I was afraid we’d have sex and then you’d lose interest.”

It’s so honest, I’m dumbfounded for a breath or two.

“I was tired of resisting you for all the right reasons.” She drags a finger across my lower lip. “I want to glom you for all the wrong ones.”

“Well, Kitty Cat, I’m not sure what ‘glom’ means, but I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It’s a compliment.” She had trouble enunciating that word, too, and it’s adorable. “Kiss.”

She puckers and I deliver a soft peck before shutting her door and climbing in on the driver’s side. When I drive by Burke’s house, I honk and wave at the people on the porch and then drive my date back to her apartment.

At one time in my life I wasn’t a catch. I wasn’t even close to being looked at twice by a suave woman like Catarina. She’s not a carnival prize to be won, and I don’t see her that way, but I recognize that winning the attention of a woman who dated an uptight toad named “Northrop” is no small victory.

As we say in Little Town, it’s a big, honking deal.

Once I hit the highway, Catarina is out. Out out. Like, I couldn’t tempt her with greasy hashbrowns and cheese eggs from Waffle House out. I make a swift decision and exit the highway to my apartment instead. I’m not dumping her off at home, after all. I have hangover remedies at my house. Strong, black coffee, breakfast accoutrements, and Advil.

At my building, I park and step out, waving at the security guy at the desk. He comes jogging outside, ready to assist.

“Andre. Can you park this for me?”

“Sure, Mr. Fox.”

He’s cool. I like Andre. I twist the car key off my keychain and hand it over.

“Thanks. Drop the key through my mail slot when you’re done.” I gesture to my passenger seat and the pretty brunette slumped there. “I’m going to have my hands full.”

“No problem.”

I lift my date, who stirs enough to bury her face in my neck and mutter one word: “dizzy.”

“If you feel sick tell me,” I say.

She responds with a snore.

In the elevator, I punch in the passcode to my floor and say a prayer that the woman in my arms isn’t motion sick. We reach my penthouse floor incident-free, thank goodness.

She’s deadweight, and I’m in shape, so it’s not an insult to her that I have trouble juggling her in my arms and sliding the key into the lock. The second I succeed in letting us into my apartment, she wakes up with a jolt.

“Oh God.”

Oh shit.

“Hang on, honey.” I rush her to the bathroom and deposit her onto the floor in time for her to make an incredible retching sound and puke into the toilet. A pitiful groan echoes in the toilet bowl. I gather her hair in one hand and rub her back as she does it again.

Another pathetic whimper precedes a few dry heaves, but I’m just glad that’s over for her.

After she flushes, she reaches for the toilet paper and I turn away as she blows her nose. A muffled moan follows. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry I left you at the mercy of Jackson’s Burke-bombers.”

“Ugh. Don’t say it.” She grabs another toilet paper wad and dabs the mascara from under her eyes. Then she looks around acquainting herself with her surroundings. “Bet you’ve held a girl’s hair a time or ten.”

“Mostly my mom’s,” I admit sadly.

I help her stand and pull open a drawer where I keep spare, unopened toothbrushes.

“Towels in the cabinet if you want to grab a shower. Or if you feel like falling into bed, that’s fine, too. I’ll get you settled. Just yell.”

She’s standing there in her cute shorts, her hair rumpled, lipstick gone, complexion a little green, and all I can think is how beautiful she is. Even now. Even in pieces.

“Thanks, Fox.”

“You’re welcome, Kitty Cat.” I pull the door to, but before I shut it all the way, I warn her, “I’m going to check on you every five minutes to make sure you don’t pass out in here.”

“Believe it or not, I’m feeling much better.”

“I believe it. I’ve been Burked before.”

Catarina

Parts of last night come to me in strobe-light style. Some of it blessedly black. Like: How did I get into Barrett’s T-shirt? Did I have help washing my hair? Other parts I remember way, way too vividly. Stacie and the porch swing. Shots. Puking while Barrett held my hair.

Groan.

Why do I have to remember that part?

I swallow the two Advil with a swig from the water bottle on Barrett’s nightstand. I do a double-take at the clock. Eight A.M.? I couldn’t even sleep in for a hangover? I accept my fate and climb out of bed. I dress in last night’s shorts and T-shirt, grateful I didn’t puke on my clothes.

Shuffling from the bedroom to the living room, I spot Barrett in the kitchen. He’s leaning over his laptop, squinting, his lips moving as he reads the words. Wonder how long he’s been up?

I take in the scene since he hasn’t noticed me yet—white countertop and cabinets, dark gray backsplash and stainless steel appliances—and him sitting in the center of that elegance, bare feet, cargo shorts, T-shirt.

He’s a handsome specimen, and despite everything we’ve done together I feel a wave of shame for him having to deal with me drunk.

“Tell me you’re not detailing last night in there,” I say, only half kidding. He turns, his eyes hazy like he was in deep concentration.

“Morning, Kitty Cat.” His lopsided smile causes my heart to flutter.

“I’m going to slip into the restroom. Brush my teeth one more time.” I point at the adjacent doorway. “Then I’ll be back for coffee if you’ve got it?”

“I’ve got it,” he says.

I make quick work of my morning routine and return to the kitchen to find Barrett pulling a full mug of coffee from beneath a one-cup coffee maker. He hands it over as I sit on a high-top stool. His laptop is open, a Word doc cued up. Before I can start reading, the lid snaps shut.

“Cream.” He sets the half-and-half container next to my mug.

“You still won’t let me see?”

“Nope.” He delivers a spoon next. “Breakfast? I make a mean omelet.”

At the mention of eggs, my stomach does a somersault. I rest my forehead on my hand and groan. He rubs circles on my back, reminding me of my clinging to the toilet like a barnacle.

“I’m so sorry about last night,” I say as he takes the stool next to mine.

“Me, too. Missed the chance to get laid.”

“Don’t joke.”

“Don’t be sorry.” He reaches for the seat of my stool and pulls me forward until our knees touch. “You forgot to kiss me good morning.”

He doesn’t give me time to argue—not that I would have—and leans in, giving me a slow kiss.

“Mmm,” he hums. “You taste good. Now I want coffee.” He takes a drink from my mug. “Ick. Tastes girly.”

“Why do you have half-and-half if you drink black coffee?”

“To make the omelet I told you about.”

“Maybe I’ll eat tomorrow morning.”

He chuckles at my plight. “You’ll be okay. Just a bit of cocktail flu.”

“Well, I have to attend the cocktail party for the Dispatch tonight, so it’d better not last past the afternoon.”

“We,” he corrects.

“Right. We. Wear a tux if you’ve got one.”

“I got one.” He winks, purposely teasing me about my bad grammar. I let my gaze linger on the contoured shape of his lips and sip my coffee instead of leaning in to taste his mouth again.

“Did you…where did you sleep?”

“Next to you.” He shrugs. “You asked me to.”

Oh, right. That I do remember though it took him mentioning it to call it up. Another sip of coffee and I tell him, “I should go. I have a lot to do today.”

“Nope.”

“Um. Yes. I do.” I rub my forehead and try to remember what’s on my list of to-dos, but my brain feels like a smashed watermelon. “I think.”

“You’re going to spend the day with me, and then I’ll bring my stuff to your place and we’ll change for the party. Eventually I’ll get some food into you, even if it’s dry toast.”

“I can’t spend the day here.”

“Why not?”

“I’m in yesterday’s clothes.”

“That is a problem. I prefer you in no clothes.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Stop worrying, Catarina.” Whenever he uses my actual name, I soften. I’m not sure why. Everyone calls me Catarina, yet said in Fox’s rough, gruff tone, I absolutely melt. “I’ll be in charge of taking care of you for the next twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty-four hours!”

“You said I could make you breakfast tomorrow morning. I’m holding you to it.”