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“I want you to stop punishing yourself.” I’m hardly one to talk about self-destruction. But this isn’t about me.
He laughs. It’s hollow. Empty. “Funny.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He takes the last sip of whiskey, slow and deliberate like it’s part of some grand performance meant to piss me off, and then taps against the bar top, signaling for another pour.
“Water.” I level the bartender with my best glare. “Just water. He’ll thank me later.”
The bartender glances between Brandon and me before nodding and grabbing a bottle of water. At least one man is listening to me.
“You’re not my fucking babysitter,” Brandon says.
“No, I’m the woman who has to drag your drunk ass home.” I grab my clutch. “Though maybe I should leave you here. Let you figure it out yourself.”
“You wouldn’t.” His dimples flash. “Contract, remember?”
The bartender puts a glass of water in front of Brandon.
“Drink.” I push it closer.
“Make me.” His eyes lock with mine, challenge written across his features.
“What are you, five?”
“You’re the one treating me like it.”
“Then stop acting like it.”
He grabs the water, downing half of it in one go. “Happy now, cupcake?”
That nickname. Why do I even bother? I hate this power he has. How can he be a complete asshole, and I still want to grab him and…
“Ecstatic.” I keep my voice flat, refusing to let him see how much he affects me. “Now, can we leave before you make an even bigger spectacle of yourself?”
“Worried about what people might think?” He leans closer, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. “Isn’t that the whole point of this charade?”
I glance around. Some people are watching us, and I doubt that Elijah and Novalie’s speeches will go on much longer. Any second, those photographers will appear and find fucked-up, drunk Brandon. This wouldn’t be good publicity for his restaurant or me.
“Outside.” I hook my arm around his, towing him away from the bar. “Now.”
He resists, then relents, letting me guide him through the crowd toward a side door. The hallway beyond is darker and colder, the party’s chaos muffled to a distant hum.
I half-drag him toward a bench on the other side of the wall, pointing at it like he’s a misbehaving child. “Sit.”
He collapses onto it with dramatic flair, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. For a moment, I think he might actually listen until he looks up with that trademark smirk, the one that screams fuck you without uttering a word.
“Didn’t know you were into manhandling,” he says. “Kinky.”
I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck. “If I wanted to manhandle someone worth my time, I’d start with literally anyone else in that room.”
“You’re still here, though.” He gestures vaguely between us. “Which means either you care… or you’re a masochist.”
“Maybe both.” I cross my arms over my chest. God knows there’s no other logical explanation for why I haven’t walked away yet or filed a restraining order against him in college.
“You really should’ve quit me by now,” he says. “Would’ve been smarter.”
Like he quit me? “I’ve always had a thing for lost puppies.”