Page 19 of How You See Me (You and Me Duology #2)

Josie

H ayes is four beers in, and the most I’ve gotten out of him is a half smile. That’s it. I’d hoped for a glimpse at the man behind the perpetual scowl—something loose and real—but he’s still locked up tighter than a librarian’s forbidden section.

Sometime during my second cocktail, the room started to tilt—not spin, not yet, just the slow lean of a boat drifting off course. I’ve begun nursing the melting ice instead of ordering another. Did I unknowingly order a drink with double shots?

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’ve lost my tolerance for alcohol.

Since leaving Manhattan, where wine and champagne flowed like tap water in Ryder’s world, I haven’t had more than a glass here or there.

It's not like Jordan and I had money to waste on non-essentials after I moved back to Virginia following his accident. It’s amazing how your body can forget years of training in a few stressful months.

I’ve tried dancing off the buzz and forcing down more of the wrap I didn’t want. Nothing seems to soak it up.

Then, the DJ flips a switch, and my spinning head becomes a non-issue. Hidden spotlights over the bar start flashing. Whatever he’s yelling into the mic garbles through the speakers, but I catch “bar dancing time.” That’s all the information I need.

Our bartender and crew sweep the bar clean, removing glasses and wiping down surfaces. This isn’t their first rodeo.

Every female in the room shrieks, me included, and I turn on Hayes. “My apologies.”

His brow raises. “For what?”

“For this.”

Before I can talk myself out of it, my alcohol-infused limbs haul my languid body onto the bar without incident. The climb was probably anythingbut graceful, but I also don’t care.

I was once obsessed with the Coyote Ugly movie. Those fearless dancers and their sexy confidence were everything I wanted to be. But I could never pull it off, even when I tried. I was usually the girl doodling on the paper menu instead of going after what she wanted.

But not tonight. Thank you, rum.

The familiar bagpipes of “Copperhead Road” scream through the speakers, and my body responds like it’s been waiting for this moment my entire life. My pulse matches the drumbeat, and I start stomping, swaying, and whooping in sync with the other women.

The song goes on forever, and I’m sweating by the time it fades out.

I find Hayes, as I often did whenever the dance steps spun me his way, and he’s still watching me with bodyguard energy.

There’s also a hint of sultry admiration in there, but I refuse to let that go to my heart.

He’s made it clear that he’s off limits.

And what man wouldn’t appreciate a bar dance from a woman?

And he had a full bar to enjoy.

The woman next to me uses my stool to climb down, and Hayes is there instantly to help. She lingers a bit, and I hate how her silky brown hair sways like a hair commercial when she moves. She’s got curves I’ll never have, which she shows off in her flowy, low-cut shirt and tight jeans.

Something akin to the New York road rage I’d witness in cab drivers rises into my throat, and I step forward.

He notices me moving in his periphery and dismisses her.

They both look up at me, but my focus stays on the hair model.

That’s right. He’s with me , my laser glare says, even though it’s wrong for me to stake my claim and run off someone he may connect with.

Then again, I haven’t done one rational thing since I stepped on this bar. Why stop now?

I get back to Hayes, and he’s waiting for me, hand out to guide me to safety. I bend to step on the stool, but the entire room whirls and gravity takes over.

I tumble into his arms—a more dramatic replay of the apparel store—and there are worse places to be. Just because he and I are off limits to each other doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the feel of him. If he can appreciate my bar dance, I can appreciate how rock solid his arms feel around me.

With the muscles I saw yesterday coming to mind, my fingers do their own thing and travel the wide breadth of his pecs.

It’s only fair since his hands haven’t left my waist. He could’ve let go the moment my feet hit the floor and ignored me like he did the model.

But here we are, tangled in our own quiet orbit, connected once again.

Under the neon light, his eyes glimmer like liquid gold.

His lashes are too long for his own good.

His presence too potent. It should be against the law for a man to be this beautiful.

How can I be expected to keep to myself when he makes me ache with want from simple glances, half-smiles, and calloused hands that touch me with tender care.

I want to kiss him and test what it would do to me. Maybe I’d feel nothing and end the curiosity. Wouldn’t it simplify this trip if I knew the electricity we make was only surface level?

I lift a hand to his cheek and his body hardens, either from shock or he’s fighting the pull between us. It can’t be rejection. He must feel it too. How could he not?

Waiting for a retreat signal in his body language, I get nothing but his lips parting as he leans in ever so slightly.

He does want this.

This feels right. This feels like . . . vomit in my throat .

Nooooo. Not now. My stomach revolts. Fruity flavors mix with chicken and too much alcohol, and it’s impatient to rid itself of me.

“Restroom, please,” I say quickly, begging my body not to make a fool of me here or on Hayes. I wouldn’t be able to show my face for the rest of the trip.

He doesn’t hesitate. Taking my hand, he cuts through the crowd, keeping me close behind him. His big body acts as a bulldozer and people scatter along our path. We reach the restroom in record time, and I all but dive inside.

Everything comes up in the first toilet I find—sugary cocktails, dinner, pride—all of it.

I have no idea how long my body assaults me before I slump to my knees.

If Hayes wants to keep his distance from me, this should do it.

Rotten breath, sweaty hair and skin, and red eyes because I can’t stop crying.

Everything hurts, and I’m sitting on the most disgusting floor. It’s sticky, gritty, and smudged with a strange black substance. Thanks to my disappearing energy, now, I am, too.

So much for channeling that sexy bar dancer confidence. So much for mystery and charm.

I lean back against the cool tile wall. It’s gross but feels like a swimming pool on a blazing summer day. If I close my eyes, I can imagine I’m floating in it.

With a vow never to drink again on the tip of my tongue, the four walls of the tiny stall fade away.

◆◆ ◆

Hayes

Josie’s been in there too long. I’ve seen countless women go in and out. But still no Josie.

Another woman approaches now, sharp heels clicking against the tile floor. I step forward to intercept her, then she steps into the light.

Just my luck.

“Hi, Gretchen.”

She pops out a hip and crosses her arms, obviously not interested in talking to me. I don’t blame her. I’d disregarded her and acted like that asshole I’m desperately trying not to be. Suddenly, I wonder if I am that person after all.

I swallow that discomfort and a little pride along with it to do something difficult for me. I ask for help.

“My . . . girlfriend is in there.” There’s no time to correct my earlier miscommunication. “I’m worried she may be sick. Could you check on her for me?”

Her hardened posture eases. “Sure.”

Alone again, I pace the hallway, needing to see Josie. Needing to ensure she’s safe. Another five minutes ticks by with no news.

I’m gearing up to tear the doors off the hinges when it finally creaks open, and Gretchen's head pokes out. She waves me over, but I can’t wait for details. I charge in.

“What’s wrong?” I ask on the way by, my voice sounding more panicked than I’m used to.

“I tried to wake her, but— ”

“Wake her?” My stomach jumps into my throat. I should have barged in sooner. “Where is she?”

And that’s when I see legs stretched out under the cracked stall door, one hand resting on the floor.

“Shit.”

Charging at the door, I'm relieved to see she’s breathing comfortably. But she’s too pale and slumped in the corner like someone bowled her there.

“Can I get you anything?” Gretchen offers behind me.

“No. Thank you. I’ve got her.”

“You might want to clean her up before putting her into bed. No woman wants those kind of reminders in the morningif you know what I mean.”

I nod, taking in the hair clinging to Josie's damp cheek down to the dark smudges on her knees.

She moans when I scoop her up and again when we enter the hallway, Gretchen following close behind. I try not to think about how Josie will feel when she comes to. Shame. Regret. Discomfort. Pain.

God help me. I want to protect her from all of it.

Her arm raises to wrap around my neck, her face burrowing into neck, and it’s the only communication I need to keep my head on straight. She’s not hurt or upset. She just needs time to recover.

“It’s sweet how much you care for her,” Gretchen says on our hasty retreat through the bar. “Boyfriend goals.”

She rushes ahead to open the exit door and waves goodbye before I can thank her or process the comment .

Boyfriend goal . Me? Now, that is the strangest thing I’ve heard in a long time.

◆◆◆

Josie has no idea what she was doing to me at the bar. How I was one breath away from kissing her and forgetting every reason why she's off limits.

And that cannot happen again.

Which is another reason why I’m now struggling to figure out how to clean her as Gretchen suggested without destroying something—my good intentions, Jordan’s trust, Josie’s belief in me. Touching her in any way already feels like betrayal. It means something to me, even when it’s wrong.

She’s still out of it, mumbling with her head against the headrest, as I pull into the closest RV park I could find. I need amenities and privacy for this task that a parking lot in downtown Nashville couldn’t provide.