The Perfect Plans Series [Box Set] (77 page)

“Should I wait by the phone for his call?” I huff through my arched jaw, taking my lip in my mouth, biting down and closing my eyes. “I’m sure as hell not reaching out to him, especially not now…” I cringe, thinking of the very many times I stared at his number on my phone, wanting so much to connect. It killed me every time. My heart’s slow painful death.

“Okay listen, this is what we’re going to do…I’m going to call Thomas and tell him that dinner tonight can’t happen, and you and I are going to get drunk. And I mean piss-eyed hammered. You can take out your anger, frustration - everything - on Captain Morgan, and within a few hours you’ll have snapped out of your shock and moved on to drunken rationale. It’s time for a ladies night, babe. You need it.”

“Stacey, don’t be crazy. You’re having dinner to meet your future in-laws. I’m pretty sure it would be highly frowned upon for you to cancel. As much as I’d love a ladies night, I could
never
let you skip out on Thomas for that. I’ll be fine.”

“Abs…”

“Stacey, no. It’s not happening. Go do your thing…meet your future family and show them how amazing you are. We can have our girls’ night another night. My broken heart’s not going anywhere.” She grimaces in concern and I feel a pang of guilt. She doesn’t need my pain right now. “Actually, I believe someone is due a bachelorette party,” I add, forcing a smile, trying like hell to hide my brokenness behind the mask of my inner actress.

“A bachelorette party, hmmm?” Stacey quips, successfully distracted for the moment, or at least pretending to be for my benefit. “Okay, Hun, tomorrow night. We’ll go out and have an impromptu shit-faced alcohol indulgence - which for the record is the natural progression through the seven steps of recovery from a broken heart. Although,
also
for the record, that heart of yours has no confirmation that it has actually been broken yet - just saying,” she shrugs. “But, I’m all for jumping on the tequila train on the pretense of a bachelorette party - whatever you want to call it. So, no ifs, and or buts about it, we’re going out. I think you need it. Deal?”

“Deal,” I nod, hiding the squeezing pain from my
absolutely
broken heart.

“YOU KNOW WHAT? This is bullshit,” I mumble to myself, pouring my fifth glass of wine.
I think it’s my fifth
. I’ve lost count. But I’m pretty sure the ratio of wine-in-glass versus spillage on countertop is a clear indication that I’ve had
way
too many. Well, that and the now empty bottle.

“Ah, fuck it. I’m drunk.
And,
I’m talking to myself. It doesn’t get any worse than this,” I raise my glass in salute to my drunken-ass, moving to stand from the island. Sadly, my struggle to maneuver in my inebriated state is reminiscent of a baby cow trying out its new legs.

What a thought to have at this moment…a baby cow.

“You know who else is a fucking cow?
Julia-fucking-Cox.”

No. Wait.
Alexander Tate is coming off particularly cow-ish at the moment. Him and his
sweet nothings
. “So fuck you too, Alexander The Great!” I raise my glass once more, spill-free despite the shaky gesture, since most of my attempted refill is pooled on the island counter.
What a waste
, I turn towards the wine that
should
be in my glass, the notion a metaphoric stab to my heart.
Such a pathetic waste
.

I mean, I knew we were over - I knew it deep down in my gut. “But,
come on
!” To have reunited with
her
so damn quickly? And to be so friggin’ cozy, you’d swear they’d never broken up?
What a whore. What an asshole.
“What a bunch of
whore-assholes
!”

I need to get them out of my head. Never think about them again. Somehow. I
have
to find away. Drowning my sorrows in Vino isn’t working.
But…
I tap my finger on my chin, pensively.
A drinking buddy…that might be just the trick
. Pursing my lips, I turn haphazardly towards the stairs, grabbing hold of the railing with a death grip, taking each step with measured movements. It feels like a walk on a tightrope, my eyes peeled to my wine glass as I attempt to keep its half empty contents inside. I’m not wasting another drop
.
I’ve wasted too much already
. I smile to myself, despite the painful analogy, successfully reaching the bottom and heading for the front door.

There’s a funny thing about patience and wine…One doesn’t work with the other. What does work, however, is knowledge of where your good neighbor hides a spare key when they take
forever
to answer the door. “Andrew? Are you here?” I question lightly, letting myself inside. “
Helloooo
? I’m looking for a drinking buddy…”

“Aby?”

My gaze darts in his direction. Emerging from the bathroom, he’s wearing nothing but…a towel. He’s wet. And naked. And wet.
Holy mother of pearl.

Devouring him in my drunken stupor, I can’t pull my gaze away - his smooth muscular chest, hint of abs and happy trail dusting along his lower tummy to creep below the fold of the towel down to a foreign place I
should
not
be imagining.
Oh. My. God.

“Abs, are you okay?” his jars me back to the present, my mind suddenly registering my lengthy, outright ogling.

“Ummm, yeah…fine. I-I just came over to drink.”

Flashing me a quick smirk, he shakes his head, his eyes light with mischief. “You came over here to drink?” he makes his way towards me, unaffected by his partial nudity.

“Ahhh, yup. With you,” I smile brightly, snapping back to the brilliance of my original plan -
Distraction 101.

“Call me crazy, but I’m guessing you’re way ahead of me,” he chuckles lightly. “Am I wrong?”

His sudden proximity and slightly somber gaze locks with mine momentarily, my words lost in the fog of my inebriation as I trace the features of his handsome face. Bright blue puppy dog eyes, stubble-covered cheeks, and that brilliant, wide smile.
Jeez, my friendly neighbor really is quite the looker
. He’s no Alexander Tate…
But, Alex Tate can kiss my…

“Aby?”

I jerk slightly as he pulls me back to reality, quickly turning away in embarrassment from my obvious perusal.
Oh, good lord.

Diversion. Think of a diversion!
This was supposed to be a distraction. Now I need a distraction from my distraction?
Shit
. “Wine. I could definitely use more wine,” I blurt, a little too exuberantly, raising my glass in the air, its contents sloshing and threatening to spill.

“Whoa, there,” he reaches for it, the touch of his hand igniting a spark I wasn’t prepared for.
What the hell was that?

My breath hitches as I struggle to break his gaze. “Sorry,” I laugh awkwardly, quickly turning towards the kitchen.

Laying my glass down on the island, the memory of the first time I was here hits me - that
other
awkward moment when his hand brushed mine as we cleaned up the spilt wine.
Humph. Was I drunk that night too?
I can’t even remember
.

“What is it with your place?” I try to brush it all off. “I have a habit of klutz-ing out in the wine department every time I’m here.”

“Maybe I should serve you beer instead,” he laughs. “Or, coffee wouldn’t hurt at the moment,” he shrugs his shoulders when I shoot him a teasing evil glare. “Hey,” he raises his hands, laughing, “…I’m just saying.”

“I came here to find a
drinking
buddy,” I reply, opening the fridge to grab two bottles of beer. “You in?”

“I’m in,” he smiles.

“Good. Heads up,” I warn, tossing him a bottle - probably not the smartest move considering my current hand-eye coordination.

His quick reflexes kick into gear to catch it, the efforts showcased in every glistening, flexed muscle as he reaches up and to the right. Bad aim on my part, poor towel wrapping on his. My eyes trace the quickly falling towel, pooling at his feet on the floor.
Shit.

Lifting my gaze to find his, I inadvertently catch a glimpse of what was, just moments ago, left to my imagination.
Double shit
. Wait.
Why is it…like that?
“Jesus, Andrew,” I blurt, without thinking, my eyes glued to his
package
. “That’s not exactly what I meant when I said heads up,” I finally compel myself to find his eyes.

“Ah, humor,” he nods his head, bending to retrieve the towel. “That’s one way to handle an awkward situation.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

He says nothing as he wraps the towel around his waist, though his gaze is locked on mine. His expression, however, is leaving me in the dark - which is a dangerous place to navigate under the influence of alcohol.

“Is
that
because of me?” I nod towards his now covered, though still evident, erection. “
Please
tell me there’s someone in the bathroom.”

“There’s no one in the bathroom, Aby,” he replies flatly, twisting off the beer cap to take a rather large swig. “Are you really implying surprise that I’m attracted to you?” he asks after seconds of silence.

“I…well, we’re friends,” I manage, reeling from the unexpected confrontation.

“Yes, we are.” He walks towards me. “Our friendship is something I truly value. But can you really blame me for feeling more?” He searches my eyes for a moment despite the rhetorical sentiment. “And, since we’re asking,” he shrugs slightly with a small, warm smile, “If we’d met before you met Alex…”

“We didn’t,” I interrupt him curtly. I’m drunk, hurt, and suddenly a little torn and confused. The last name I need to hear is…
his
. Not right now. He left me for
her
. Isn’t that why I’ve drunk myself into this ridiculous stupor?

And, you know what
- my inner actress steps into the spotlight, booting my sulky inner dreamer off stage -
maybe testing the waters with my handsome neighbor
isn’t
such a ridiculous idea
. I’ve said it myself, Andrew is a wonderful guy. A great catch. Any girl would be lucky to have him.
And, if things
had
started differently
…

I meet his gaze, my eyes whispering what I’m thinking before he slowly bends his head towards me. It’s a soft, slow brush of his lips against mine, just enough to set off that small spark that’s been hiding in the shadows waiting for the right time, if and when it ever came. There’s no reason to deny it. Nothing standing in the way of seeing where it can go. Nothing…
and, no one
.

He leans back, our gaze locked, my breaths labored as I absorb what’s about to happen, what line we’re about to cross.

Taking the bottle from my hand, he turns to lay it down beside his on the island, his eyes returning to search mine. It’s a silent, gentlemanly request, awaiting my returned approval. And I give it, without a word.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, cupping my face in his hands, the pad of his thumb brushing along my lip.

My nod of certainty is quick.

His kiss…is slow.

Slow and sensual.

And though my body awakens to the spark of arousal at the hands of my inebriation, it quickly fizzles. My mind isn’t in the game. Or maybe it’s my heart.

His lips feel…soft…
foreign
. My head spins as I struggle to give in to the moment and the feelings it should be evoking. I shouldn’t be thinking at all, but I can’t ignore the words floating through my mind like cue cards in grad school study hall - the most prevalent in bold italics:
Awkward
.

I gasp when he pulls away, though not from passionate despair at the loss of his lips. It’s more a sigh of relief from somewhere deep in my gut.

Dropping his hands from my face, he takes a step back, his gaze taking in mine. His blue eyes reflect my inner battle of mind over need, and every part of me wants to beg him to form an alliance against the prevailing side of thought. I need to forget. I need to lose myself in mindless passion. Forced or otherwise.

Have you ever been so drunk in both wine and despair that you can’t think straight? That’s pretty much where I’m sitting. “Try it again,” I mutter in a desperate plea to force something that doesn’t seem to be there.

“I should get dressed,” he replies in forfeit, but I convince myself I see a flicker of hope in his eyes as I reach to stop him from stepping away. “Aby, don’t,” his tone is gentle, understanding.

Ugh
. He knows what I’m refusing to admit. “Come o-n-n-n…” I whine like a five year old, a smidge away from stomping my little feet.
Yup, I’m officially pathetic
. I want an escape. I’m desperate for one, even if it means trying to force a cube into the circle hole.
Try summoning a slutty grin, and bite your lip like a whore propositioning him at the curb
- my inner actress rolls her eyes at me from the corner. I purse my lips - it’s an outward action that hides my inner flipping her the bird.

He says nothing to my childish plea.

It makes me feel foolish. Which ties in a whole bunch of other feelings that don’t mix well with my consumed bottle of Vino. And together, the lot certainly doesn’t sit well against my drunken, defensive wall. As a matter of fact, they shatter it. “I know you want this,” I challenge him.