He’s totally going to complain to Mahler about me and get me fired after this. But maybe I can start some kind of Uber therapy business because I’m really enjoying this.
“I understand that more than I understand just about anything,” he says.
And even though I’m about ten seconds away from falling asleep, my eyes snap open. Even though his car is dark and my vision is slightly blurry, I can still see the ghosts in his expression . . . hear them in his voice.
“You do?”
He nods and takes a deep breath—slow in and even slower out. And just like the first time I saw him walk out onto the Mustangs field, awareness filters into every part of my body. I want to adjust my seat. Sit up and give him the same attentiveness he’s given me, but I also don’t want to distract him from the words he’s obviously struggling to find. So instead, I sit as still as possible, not even breathing.
“Yeah, I do. My—”
“You have now arrived at your final destination.” His car—car!—interrupts him.
The British voice seems to startle whatever he was about to say right out of his head. His entire face transforms as he leans forward and looks out of his front window at my building. “Nice place.”
Given I’ve seen his home and I’m still trying to catch my bearings after whatever that just was, I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not.
“You know, after all this time we’ve spent together, I still can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”
“I’m not being sarcastic.” He cranks the steering wheel and comes to a stop. “This looks really nice.”
“Then thank you.” I find the button to move the seat into a sitting position. “I bought it after I sold my dad’s house.”
I’ve decorated my condo . . . tried to make it feel like home, but it still doesn’t and I’m not sure it ever will. After my dad died, I contemplated keeping his house. He loved that house. I loved that house. But as soon as he took his last breath, it stopped feeling like my home. Instead it just felt like a place I used to live. And when all of his medical bills started piling in, I knew I didn’t have a choice. But now I don’t have family. I have a house, but not a home. I just feel like I’m going to wander through the rest of my life. Like I have no place where I really belong.
I guess that will have to be a story for my next drunk taxi ride.
“I’m sure he’d be glad he was able to help you, even though he’s not here.”
“That’s a nice way to look at it.” I offer him a tight smile and try to get the focus off of me. Because after the loose lips section of drunk Elliot comes overly emotional Elliot and I cannot go down that road tonight. “What were you going to say before your navigation interrupted you?”
“Oh, it was nothing,” he says, but the way his grip tightens around the steering wheel says otherwise.
“Are you sure?” I might be drunk, but that doesn’t quiet the fixer in me. “Because I also don’t care enough about what you will say to remember it tomorrow.”
“Well, when you say it like that,” he says, but the cobwebs of whatever was bothering him are gone and his smile manages to be bright in this dark car.
“Whatever, you know what I meant.” I try to unbuckle the seat belt but I’m so uncoordinated that Quinton has to turn on the overhead lights to help me out. “Seriously, what is wrong with your car? I swear this is jammed.”
This would never happen in a Toyota.
“Here.” He wraps my hand in his and leans over to unbuckle my seat belt with the other.
When he touched me and I felt sparks earlier, I tried to convince myself that it was just the nerves because of the event. But the event is over. And with his face inches away and his hand on mine, I swear, the air thickens and crackles from the charged energy between us. Neither of us says anything, but my breathing deepens and my pulse quickens with every second that ticks by.
Until I can’t take it anymore.
I close the distance between us and touch my lips to his.
And for a split second, he kisses me back.
Until he doesn’t.
He drops my hand and pulls away. “Elliot . . .”
I’ve fallen in public before. I’ve replied all with a very personal email. I’ve embarrassed myself more than the average person. But nothing, NOTHING, compares to the utter mortification of this moment. Fire starts in the pit of my stomach and spreads right to my face. I take in the horrified look on Quinton’s face and remember how he clearly stated, from our first meeting, that he was not interested in me. At all.
“Oh shit.” I grab my purse off the floor of his car, my cheeks ablaze with humiliation. “I’m so, so sorry. I have no idea what came over me.”
“Elliot.” Pity is written all over his stupid, beautiful face. “I—”
“No, no. I get it. I’m sorry. I . . . Bye.” I open the door, climbing out of his car faster than my drunk mind can keep up with, and run.
And I don’t stop until the door to my condo is closed and locked behind me. But even that’s not enough. I run to my bed and hide under my covers, hoping the tequila will at least let me forget that any of this ever happened.
When I said I had drunk mouth, this was not what I meant.
Eighteen
I don’t know what wakes me up first.
Ripping my dry tongue off the roof of
