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I nod. “I am now.” A slight smile creeps across my face, though it feels fragile. “I was trying to get away, but didn’t want to make a scene.”
“You shouldn’t have to.” His voice is firm. “I could see him making you uncomfortable from across the room. I’m glad I got here when I did.”
“Me too,” I say.
His eyes linger on mine. He’s close – probably closer than he’s ever been before – close enough for me to notice the faint shadow of stubble growing in along his neck, and the tired but gentle crease around his eyes. His scent – something warm and clean, with hints of sandalwood and nutmeg – washes over me, replacing the nausea from earlier.
His gaze drops briefly to my lips before flicking quickly back to my eyes, and my heart stutters.
Suddenly, something barrels into me from behind, sending me flying forward - straight into Marcus’s chest. His arms wrap around me, steadying me. My palm lands flat against his chest. And my brain can’t string together a coherent thought.
“Liiii – la,” Carter slurs, arms draping around my shoulders as I reluctantly force myself to straighten up, despite every cell in my body begging to stay pressed against Marcus.
I look over at Carter. He’s completely plastered. His cheeks are red, his eyes glassy, and he reeks of tequila. I sigh, wrapping my arm around his waist to prop him up as Marcus’s arms fall back to his sides.
“Did – did you know…” he slurs, “that… the floor is doing the wave? Like at… at… net…sport…ball games!” he exclaims, as though proud of himself for figuring out the word he meant to say.
He flings his free arm out, nearly toppling us both over, and I notice Marcus flinch, as though holding himself back from catching us. Or catchingme.
“Whoa! See! The floorismoving!” Carter laughs.
I struggle to keep him upright while giving Marcus an apologetic look.
Carter’s head lolls forward then snaps to look at me. “You’re so pretty,” he says, letting his head drop down to rest against mine.
I close my eyes. If he remembers any of this tomorrow, he better fucking make it up to me big time.
No. Screw that. Even if he doesn’t remember it, he’s buying me lunch for a week. A month.
“I should get him home,” I mutter, struggling to keep Carter upright. The adrenaline, the music, the heat, the alcohol all mix together now, making my head spin.
Marcus nods, and I catch a flicker of something in his eyes – disappointment? – before his expression shifts back into his usual calm exterior.
“I’ll help you get him outside,” he says, already moving to take Carter’s other arm. The relief is instant. Carter’s weight shifts off me and I take a deep breath.
“You’re the best,” Carter mumbles to Marcus, his head swinging between us as Marcus clears a path toward the door. I cling to Carter’s side, trying my best to keep his feet somewhat under him.
The freezing cold January air hits us like a wave as we push out onto the pavement. Carter sways, then manages to straighten up slightly, dragging in heavy, uneven breaths like the cold might help sober him.
“Are you going to be alright?” Marcus asks quietly, his voice sending an involuntary shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the temperature.
I nod, wanting to hug him, but feeling an obligation to keep one hand on Carter to stop him from falling over and hitting his head on the ground.
“How are you getting home?” Marcus asks, pulling out his phone.
“I think we’re crashing at Angela’s,” I say, looking around in hopes that she’s seen us and followed us out.
“I’ll find her,” he says.
“Thank you.” I try to hold his gaze, but he’s already walking back inside.
Carter groans beside me, leaning on the wall. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
For fuck’s sake!
Chapter 8
Monday morning, I’m in the kitchen waiting for the coffee machine to finish brewing a way-too-foamy version of a latte. It’s a pale imitation of my usual from the coffee shop around the corner, but it does the job for a 10am pick-me-up.