my hair, grab my wallet, and try to walk like those confident runway models. Swing hips. Lean back. Pout lips. Five steps into my Coco Rocha catwalk, I realize how much I’ve had to drink. Not enough that I can’t remember my high school health class and the list of effects alcohol has on the brain, such as difficulty walking, blurred vision, and slowed reaction times. The exact ones I experience as I trip over nothing, body check an innocent bystander, ricochet into a chair, and end up on my knees.
Damn Leigh and her liquid courage.
Rough, callused fingers dig into my arms. Unfamiliar fingers. The words “Careful, pretty lady” are followed by the overpowering stench of booze and cigarettes. A quick glance left, and I’m face-to-face with the ratlike guy, the one who was ogling me before I fell on my face in front of the bar. And Sam.
“Thanks, I’ve got her,” Sam says from above me.
I’ve never been so happy to hear his voice.
His hands slide around my waist, but I’m frozen on my knees with Rat Guy’s fingers biting into my arms, his breath making me queasy. The last thing I want to do is top my face-plant with a regurgitation of the soup I had for dinner. I keep my attention on the floor, on the piece of green glass by the foot of the chair that sent me sprawling.
Don’t breathe. No, do breathe. Don’t pass out.
Sam’s grip tightens around me. “I said, I’ve got her. So unless you want to lose your hands, I suggest you back away.”
“Just helpin’ out, mate.”
Rat Guy lets go of my arms, and I breathe deep as Sam lifts me up. Actually, I turn in to Sam, press my face into his shirt, and inhale his scent. He smells like freshness and man and that lemony detergent we bought yesterday. It eases my nausea. He tucks me into his side and leads me to a nook near the bathrooms, a quieter place with a pay phone on the wall. The thing’s practically an artifact.
He lets go of me and steps back to keep his distance. “You okay?”
I study my upturned palms. There’s a scrape on the heel of my right hand, dirt speckling the skin around it. I wipe it on my thigh. He watches my every move, the heat from his gaze burning through the fabric of my suctioned skirt as his eyes dip lower. He can’t hide the bulge in his jeans. Normally, I’m not one for PDA, especially not in a busy bar. The looks I’m getting in this outfit alone are making me squeamish. But this is One-syllable Sam, hotness personified, and I know what his chest looks like under that shirt, the sculpted abs, and that bit of hair that dips toward his belt. If I could reach into his jeans and slide my hand over his—
“Stop it with your thing, Nina. We need to talk.”
Right, talk. That was the plan before my elegant face-plant. He shifts his jeans, and I drag my eyes up to meet his, giving him my best dirty look. I’m mad at him. Enraged. Wrathful. It should be easy to raise my voice and tell him how small he made me feel. I try to access the sober centers of my brain.
Unfortunately, there’s that other effect of tequila I haven’t considered. The Pininfarina Effect. “Talk? Yeah, sure. I can talk. I can form words and speak. Big words. Lots of words. A plethora of words. I can be like Tolkien and invent a language. Instead of Elvish, I’ll call it Newzealish.”
He fights the smirk tugging at his lips. “How much have you had to drink?”
I focus on my hand and unfold one finger at time. I wave five digits in his face.
He shakes his head, leans into the wall, and crosses his arms. His smirk vanishes, a steely expression hardening. “I’m leaving. Heading out tonight.”
Leaving? Tonight? He can’t be serious. If anyone is taking off and leaving the other it should be me. I’ve been wronged. I’ve been hurt. Not him. Plus, if he goes it means no sexy stuff, and I really, really want to do sexy stuff with him. Like now.
First, I have to get my brain to coordinate with my mouth and find a way to unleash my kraken. “You’re not leaving, Sam. You’re not going anywhere until you tell me why you went from perfect to sucky. Why you watched that awful video and did the thing