eyes squint in my direction, like she’s trying to figure me out.
Good luck.
She rises, gathering her things.
“Where are you going?” I stand, confused, because clearly a second ago this was going pretty fucking well.
“Home.”
“Why?”
“You’re drunk. Like, really drunk.” She seems annoyed by that fact. “And you just offended me by assuming I was that easy.”
I laugh, following her toward the exit. The giggling girls stop chatting and stare in our direction, but I don’t give a shit. Let them watch. Let them see what they could experience if they stopped planning their Pinterest weddings for two point six seconds and found themselves a real man. An honest man. One who won’t bullshit about the fact that the only thing he gives a damn about is sex.
I place my hand on her shoulder to stop her, and her body freezes. I shouldn’t have touched her because now I look like a goddamned creep and she looks a little bit horrified.
This got dark, fast.
My mouth opens, and I’m on the verge of apologizing, but I’m not the kind of man who’s ever really been sorry for anything, so I stop myself.
Removing my hand from her, I straighten my shoulders and take a half of a step back. In the span of a couple of seconds, I see the two of us in bed, sweaty and spent. It could’ve been hot. And I sure as fuck could’ve used the release. But now my chance is shot to hell, so ...
“Do you need help? Or anything?” she steps closer to me, keeping her voice down.
“What? Jesus. No.”
“You’re really drunk and you’re coming onto complete strangers at some random bar. I think you need help.”
This isn’t some random bar, but I don’t have the mental stamina to sit here and defend it to her.
“It’s been a rough couple of weeks,” is all I tell her. It’s all she needs to know, and I refuse to elaborate if she asks. I’m not in the habit of making excuses, but in this case, after the last several days I’ve endured, I’m making an exception.
Her rosebud mouth bunches in one corner as she studies me. “You need me to take you home?”
“No, I do not need you to take me home,” I repeat her words. “I don’t need a fucking caretaker.”
Ayla’s hand splays across her chest. “Believe me, I’m not a caretaker. I can barely take care of myself most days. I was just offering to help you home, not wipe your ass.”
Goddamn.
This woman, this Ayla ... she reminds me of … me. The way she talks. The way she drinks. The looks she gives. The take-no-shit attitude. The only other person I’ve known who was remotely like myself was Bryce, but I’ve never met a female version.
“What?” she asks. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You can take me home if it makes you feel better.” I sound pathetic. I know that. Well aware. But if Ayla leaves this bar tonight, I’m never going to see her again. I’m never going to know what it’s like to fuck my equal, and in my warped, little drunk mind, I’m kind of curious to know what it would be like.
Plus, she’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. That, alone, is all the reason a man needs, truly.
“If it makes me feel better?” she mocks me. “I’m not doing this for my health, Rhett. I’m doing this because you need me to.”
My lips part, and I almost come back at her with a line about how I don’t need anyone, but then I remember I’m playing the part of a wounded bird, and the second I get her into my nest, she’s all mine.
“Come on.” She hooks her hand into the crook of my elbow and leads me to the door. “You’re paying for the cab.”
Six
Ayla
* * *
Shit. Shit. Shit.
What the hell am I doing?!
Rhett jams his key into the lock outside his apartment door. It takes him a few tries, but he eventually succeeds, and as I’m ushered into a pitch-black apartment that smells vaguely of vetiver and teak wood, I wonder how pissed he’d be if he knew the truth—if he knew I was Bryce’s sister and that I knew his name before he introduced himself back at The Prescott Club.
But to be fair, I wasn’t exactly planning to run into him tonight, and there wasn’t exactly an opportune moment for me to slip those little details into our conversation. I didn’t leave them out intentionally,