Just shower here.

As soon as I type it and hit send, I drop my phone onto my chest and close my eyes. I’m stretched out on one of the guest room beds, trying to take a much-needed nap. Unfortunately, the five glasses of champagne I drank at Anton’s during my dress-fitting has different ideas. The room is a slow-moving merry-go-round, and I plant a foot on the ground to stop the bed from spinning with it.

Hoping that the soft, fizzy champagne buzz would lull me to sleep, I closed my eyes. It took me all of ten seconds to realize it’s not going to work.

All I could do was think about Patrick.

I struggled for about an hour before I gave in and texted him. When he said he’s going to be late and why I felt a sudden flash of irritation that quickly morphed into a strange sort of longing. I texted back.

You don’t need to shower.

Just come home.

I love you.

Thankfully I’m not drunk enough to send any of those texts. But I am drunk enough to tell him to just shower here. I hit send and rest my phone on my chest, my heart knocking against it through my ribcage.

Was this a date?

I don’t know, Cari. You tell me.

I’m not exactly professing my undying love, but it’s a start.

I’m enough.

I’m enough.

I’m enough.

When he doesn’t answer, longing slides into irritation again.

Me: I know you have clothes here.

I saw them in one of the guest rooms.

I shift on the bed, lifting something off the nightstand. The key.

His key.

I don’t know, Cari. You tell me.

Irritation fades again, this time into understanding. Patrick tore his heart out in front of me once. He won’t do it again. Whatever happens next, it’ll happen because I made it happen. Not by traipsing around half-naked or because I hung a mirror across from my open bedroom door. It’ll happen because I was honest. Because I believed him when he said he loved me.

Because I know we’re enough.

I’m enough.

I raise my phone to text him again.

Me: It was a date. This is a date.

I want you to come home. I want

you to stay.

Before I can hit send, he answers me.

Patrick: Okay. See you in an hour.

“Cari...” Buzz “Cari... shit.”

Buzzz Buzz Buzzz

“Cari, I don’t have my key.”

Patrick’s voice booms through the open spaces of the apartment, the sound of it pulling me upright. I look at my phone. It’s 6:10.

Jumping off the bed, I run down the hall, my socks sliding across the slick, polished wood. The sudden movement sends me spinning, reminding me that I killed an entire mag of Dom on my own at Anton’s. If possible, I’m drunker now than I was when I closed my eyes an hour ago.

On the wall, next to the laundry room door is an intercom system. It looks complicated. Rolling the dice, I press the blue button marked with a white I. “I fell asleep.” I yell. “I’m sorry—I fell asleep.” I can hear street noise through the speaker but nothing else. “Patrick, are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” It sounds like he’s laughing. “Open the door.”

I look at the control panel. There’s at least a dozen of them. “How—”

More laughing. “Green button marked D.”

I press it and hear another buzzing, this one far off, followed by the slam of a door. I step into the laundry room and open the door leading to the stairs. When I do, I find Patrick mounting them, juggling a half-dozen grocery bags. He’s on the landing before I can offer to help and I step back, pressing myself against the door frame to make room for him to pass through. Instead, he stops in front of me.

“Hi,” he says softly, and I have that feeling again. The one I had at Benny’s when he was unbuttoning my coat. He wants to kiss me. He wants to but he won’t.

I’m enough.

I raise myself on my toes and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. When I pull back, I return his smile. “Hi,” I say, pulling one of the bags from his arms. “You’re late.”

“I was on time.” He shakes his head, laughing. “You had me standing in the street, buzzing and yelling like a lunatic.” He moves away from me, stepping into the kitchen, leaving me to follow. He sets the grocery bags on the U-shaped island and starts unloading them.

“I fell asleep,” I say again, setting my bag down next to his.

He flicks me a quick, assessing glance, followed by a dimpled grin that makes me feel like the room is spinning again. “You sure passed out isn’t the term you’re looking for?”

“I might’ve had a glass of champagne—or five.” My hand flies to my hair, the other rubbing at my face. Jesus, I probably look terrible. As soon as I escaped dress-fitting hell, I changed back into the yoga pants and top I was wearing the first time Patrick showed up today. I feel my face crumple into a grumpy frown. “Don’t judge me—I was shanghaied.”

“Me? Judge?” Patrick laughs and shakes his head. “Have you met my family?” He reaches into the bag in front of him and pulls out a package wrapped in white butcher paper. “More than one of us would down a bottle of Jameson, run naked through the streets and call it Tuesday.”

I laugh because that actually happened once.

Reaching into the bag again, he pulls out a bottle of red wine. A nice one by the look of the label. I don’t know why, but something about it pulls at my brain. Makes me uneasy.

“So... shanghaied?” he says. Making short work of the cork, he sets it aside to breathe.

Next out was a few staples—milk, eggs, bread, butter. Blueberry yogurt. My unease passes.

I tell him about going to the garage to see Tess. Jessica showing up and dragging me to dress-fitting. The more I tell him, the tighter his shoulders get. “Jess’s been after her since we were kids—sometimes I think marrying Declan is more about torturing Tess than it is about the money.”

“You don’t think Jessica loves him?” I say, digging a bag of pre-prepped veggies out of one of the sacks.

“Hell no.” Patrick laughs, taking the veggies from me and setting them on the counter. “And he doesn’t love her either.”

“Then why would he marry her?” I don’t have to ask why a girl like Jessica would want to marry Declan. He’s wealthy, gorgeous, successful... the old me understands perfectly.

“He told me once that he’s marrying Jessica because he deserves her.” He shrugs. “Marrying her is a self-imposed punishment.”

“For what he did to Tess?” I still don’t even know what happened between them. All I know is it was bad.

“For a lot of things.” He shakes his head like he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. “I hope you’re hungry because I came here to eat.”

Because I’m a total perv and kinda drunk, his comment chases thoughts of Declan and Tess from my head in an instant and sends a quick blast of heat over my skin, tightening my nipples instantly.

Shit.

“I’m just going to go—” I turn, heading to my room to brush my hair and change my clothes. And put on a bra. Jesus, he probably thinks I keep ditching my bra on purpose just to fuck with him.

A strong hand reaches out and snags my arm, stopping me cold. “Nope,” he says, pulling me back. “I need a sous-chef.”

I lift my free arm, mashing my hand against my skull, wincing when the hair on top of it springs back when I lift it up. “I have bedhead.”

He’s standing close, the hand on my elbow loosening to slide up my arm, skimming over my bare shoulder before coasting up the line of my neck. “You do,” he says, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. “It’s adorable.”

I turn my face, digging my chin into the top of my shoulder. “I think I drooled.”

“You did.” He nods, barely suppressing a laugh. “But considering you drank enough champagne to drown a horse, I think you got off easy.”

“I’m not wearing a bra.”

Now his grin turns wicked, his gaze drifting over my chin... my collarbone... before settling on my breasts. “Yeah...” He says it softly, letting his eyes linger for a moment before lifting them to mine. “I noticed.”

“I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to...shit...” I sigh and stop talking because nothing is coming out of my mouth right. I’m not sure if it’s the bubbly or the fact that he’s standing so close I can feel the brush of his work shirt against my swollen nipples.

“I know.”

His words, the way he says them—slow and careful—remind me of what happened the day of the storm. The way I goaded and pushed him into bending me over the pool table.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him quickly. I want him to know that this isn’t a game to me. That I don’t think he’s a joke.

“Don’t be.” He takes a step back, away from me. “You’re allowed to be comfortable without having to offer me an explanation.”

I shake my head. “That’s not what I’m mean.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else, but he doesn’t. Turning away from me completely, he opens the fridge. The only thing in it is beer and water. He deliberates for a second before snagging a beer. “Put stuff away while I take a quick shower?” he says, twisting off the cap before tossing it in the trash. He takes a long drink of his beer, casually avoiding my gaze.

I nod. “Sure,” I say, watching him walk across the apartment to disappear down the hall.

I’d bet my life that whatever he was about to say to me, that wasn’t it.