into laughter, then slap his shoulder for emphasis. “See? This is why you should only make rom-coms.”
“Well,” Drew says, looking right into my eyes. “This one certainly turned out pretty well for me.”
“You are very good-looking, you know,” I say, wiggling my toes.
Drew smiles at me. “You’re a little drunk, you know.”
“How are you not drunk? How much wine did you have?”
“Well, for starters, I’m six foot two, not five foot five.”
“I’m five foot five and three quarters,” I protest, because the distinction seems important to me at the moment.
“Do you want some water?” Drew asks. “I’m kind of worried about your hydration.”
I nod slowly. This, oh, this is nice, someone here to look out for me. Not that Uncle Don doesn’t care about me, and not that I need someone to look out for me, but all of a sudden I’m struck with the desire to always have Drew here to make sure I don’t drink too much and tuck me in at night and take care of me when I’m sick.
“Water,” I say. “Good idea.”
In the kitchen, I grab a glass out of the cabinet. I turn to go to the sink but before I can, Drew is there, and he easily picks me up and places me on the counter.
He kisses me, his hands on my face and in my hair, and I pull him to me. I wrap my legs around his waist and run my hands up under his shirt. “God, you have, like, no body fat,” I say into his mouth.
“It’s not always like this,” he says, his words vibrating into my mouth. “A few more weeks of McDonald’s and wine and you’ll be disappointed.”
“I don’t think I could ever be disappointed in you,” I say, and I’m too far gone to even be embarrassed.
Drew pulls back, and for a second I think that must’ve been too far, that I’ve said too much, but he puts his hands on my face and looks into my eyes.
“You’re pretty drunk,” he says, both a statement and a question.
I think about arguing, but it’s pretty clear, so I nod.
“I don’t want to do this right now,” Drew says. “I mean, I do want to do this. I really, really do. I think I’ve made that pretty clear. But I would like both of us to not hate ourselves or each other in the morning.”
I look at him and blink a few times. He rubs his thumb over my cheek.
“I like you, Annie,” he says, and the thrill of hearing that statement tingles through my entire body, starting at my head and going all the way to my toes. “And I’ve been wanting to kiss you ever since you ran into me on the sidewalk.”
“Wait,” I say, pulling my head back and looking up at him. “What? Are you joking?”
He shakes his head, still not taking his eyes off mine. “Not about this. I know I made fun of your romantic comedy obsession before you explained it to me, but something happened the second I saw you. It was like I knew you were—”
I kiss him again before he can say anything else because this, this is too good to be true. There’s a charming, funny, goofy man in my kitchen telling me that he’s had a thing for me ever since we had a meet-cute, and he’s so kind and respectful that he doesn’t want to hook up with me because I’ve had a little too much wine. This can’t be real, but it is real. The movies never lied to me; Nora Ephron, my mom, and Hollywood were telling the truth. I found my Tom Hanks.
“What?” Drew asks, pulling back, and I realize I’ve said this last part out loud. “Tom Hanks is an American treasure, sure, but why are you talking about him right now?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, kissing him harder, and he pulls away with a groan that is quite possibly the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.
“I’m gonna sleep on the couch,” he says, stepping back and leaning against the island. “You go get some sleep, too.”
“Sleep is for losers,” I mutter, crossing my arms.
“Water,” Drew says, taking my glass and filling it at the sink. He goes into the pantry, then tosses me a granola bar. “Eat.”
“Boo,” I say.
“Very mature.” Drew unwraps the granola bar. Part of me wants to be upset that we’re not making out right now, but another part of me is tired and hungry