I thrust my face directly into his chiseled face. “I love your dimples.” Another hiccup. “But I’m not gonna date you, cause you’re a manwhore. What kinda stupid name is Tyler Wilder, anyway? It rhymes!”

“You will date me,” he states quietly, walking and looking straight ahead at the road. “But right now you need a bottle of water and an Advil. I recommend you stick to girlie cocktails from now on.”

“Thanks, doc. Hey, did ya’ read what they wrote about you online?” I nuzzle his neck brazenly. He smells damn good and even though I’m not drunk to the point I don’t know what I’m doing, I take advantage of my own disastrous condition. Who knows if I’ll ever get the chance to be so close to him again?

“Someone said she wanted to sit on your face,” I announce. Ty kicks the door to the cabin open and places me carefully on the rug.

“Your point?” he asks.

Hiccup.

“Must be fun being you.”

“Not so much right now.”

Hiccup.

“You can kiss me now if you want.” I close my eyes and relax backwards, resting my head on the arm of the old sofa that sits in front of the fireplace. I let out another hiccup, and this time pepper it with a sneeze.

“As much as I find you irresistible right now, and trust me, there’s nothing sexier than a woman hiccupping her way to a drunken coma, I’m going to pass.”

Wounded from his rejection, I pretend to fall asleep on the floor. It’s late and I have enough alcohol in my blood stream to supply a frat party. Besides, anything else I say is bound to count against me. I’ve already been embarrassed—twice!—by asking him to kiss me and not getting kissed.

So I keep my eyes shut when he envelops me in a fleece blanket and picks me up again, as if I’m light as a feather. I keep my eyes shut as he places me in the backseat of his Hummer and drives me back to my apartment. I keep them shut when he lifts me up, opens my door with my keys, flops me down on my bed, removes my chucks, and pulls the comforter all the way up to my chin.

I peek for a second when I hear him rummaging through my bathroom drawers, but then I shut them again when he places a bottle of water and ibuprofen on the nightstand beside me and plugs my phone into its charger. I keep them shut as he kneels down and places his warm, full lips on the bridge of my nose and kisses it for a few long seconds.

And I keep them shut even when I hear the front door bang shut.

I keep my eyes shut, but I’m not at all blind to the magic that is Ty Wilder.

Chapter Eight

I’ll never. Drink. Again.

My head feels like there’s a rave party inside, the DJ is smashed, and everybody is wearing heels.

I wipe my eyes wearily and reach for the water bottle, taking a long sip before the pieces of last night’s puzzle fall into place. When they do, horror surges through my veins, like ropes of pain chaining me to watch a slow-motion replay of the train wreck that was my last night’s behavior.

He admitted to having a foursome and to participating in endless one-night stands.

I ran like a little idiot because he admitted to fooling around with other women while single.

I asked him to kiss me.

I hiccupped like a moron.

He rejected me.

I sneezed on his face.

He took me home and ran for his life.

I sneezed on his face!

Then I remember him taking care of me—the sweet way he tucked me in, the ibuprofen, the kiss—and that makes me feel even worse.

I bury my head under my pillow and burrow deeper into my sheets. If only I could disappear beneath my covers and pop back out with someone else’s life (preferably Jenna Dewan Tatum’s), all would be well. There is no point crying. I have an early class today and I promised Nana Marty I’d drop by and congratulate her about the wedding. I have no time for self-pity.

Reluctantly, I peel myself from my bed and sit up, holding my head in my hands so it won’t explode all over the carpet (but only because that would ruin Izzy's chances of getting her deposit back). I see my cell phone on my nightstand beeping with light and check it.

Two missed calls from Shane.

One from Mom.

One text from an unknown number.

You owe me that date.

I don’t recognize the number, but I sure as hell recognize the commanding tone. I want to punch myself in the face for the woozy sensation swelling in my stomach, but I can’t help it. He actually took the time and effort to take my number and save his on my phone under the contact Ty Wilder. Even after my little drunken scene.

I type back too fast and too eagerly for my own good. You owe me that interview.

A moment later, I receive his reply. I said I’d give it to you if we had a date. That wasn’t a date. It was an open invitation for rape. At best.

Ignoring his criticism, I text, I need your interview. The assistant to the XWL president has already sent me some quotes. You’re the only person I have left. Stop being a diva..

What are you doing tonight?

Just hangin’. I hit send and then add, With my grandma.

Sounds wild. I’ll pick you up from her place.

So you can tell me more about your sexual conquests? No thanks.

You asked. And I've already told you, you're different. I'm waiting for granny's address.