Wild Abandon (13 page)

When I am done, Nate takes the bottle of Jack and motions toward the back room where we play a few rounds of darts. The liquor must be flowing through my bloodstream because our conversations start to get a little brazen.

“What does every man want in bed but would never tell?”

“Anal,” he answers like it was the easiest question in the world. “What about women?”

I walk over to the dartboard, take the darts out, and line them up along the line between seven and nineteen and seventeen and two, creating a pie shape on the lower half of the dart circle. With a sharp pointer finger, I point to the bull’s-eye. “Right there.” I point again to the same spot. “There.” Then, I take my finger and start pointing to all other areas of the pie. “Not there or there or there. It’s. Right. There!” I dramatically point to the bull’s-eye again.

“Point taken.”

“What is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you?”

We’re back at our table, The Barge Poppers packing up their equipment in the front of the room. The pub is half-full. So is the bottle of Jack.

“I starred in a music video wearing a string bikini and holding an orangutan.”

“What was the song called?”

“‘Boom’…hey, what are you Googling?”

“Who was your childhood idol?” Mine was Julie Andrews in
The Sound of Music
. I wonder if he’d be the Captain to my Von Trapp—wait, that doesn’t make sense.

“
Braveheart
.” His baseball cap is now backward. Those eyes are on full display, piercing around all the black. He has a really good-looking face. Chiseled jaw and scruff.

For the love of scruff…

Focus, woman!

“What is it with men and that movie? He gets castrated.”

“Way to ruin the mood,” he says. His voice is still strong. I wonder if his lips feel numb, too. “It’s a clansmen thing. I like the culture—”

“
Outlander
. That guy’s hot. I want to buy a red Toyota Highlander Hybrid and name it Jamie Fraser.”

“Who the fuck is—never mind. I like how the Scots wear their family’s clan over their shoulder. It’s like—hey, where are you going? I don’t think you should—you might be the first girl to ever dance on that bar.”

“Hang on there, killer.” Nate’s voice is nearby, very close to my left ear.

We’re outside, and the air is cool against my warm skin.

Too much drinky makes Crystal stinky.

I hope I didn’t say that out loud.

“You said that out loud.”

“What is the whiskey equivalent of Napa?”

“There isn’t one.”

There is a huge hole in the sidewalk because I fall to the side, and Nate grabs on to my waist, holding me up so that I don’t fall into it.

Stupid hole. “What about beer? Where is the land of beer?”

“That would be Oktoberfest.”

“I’ve been there! Let’s go to Munich!”

Someone really needs to get this sidewalk fixed. I have to reach up and hold on to Nate’s shoulder to keep from falling into the damn holes in the ground.

“Let’s get you home. Crystal…I can’t carry you if you’re grabbing my ass.”

“You have nice eyes.” My back is propped up against something hard. And rough. I lean back into it. It’s scratching my head. I look up.

Wow.

He’s pretty.

“So you’ve told me.”

“What does your tattoo mean?”

I think his mouth is broken because he’s not answering me.

“Undying love.”

Oh, that’s pretty, too. Like you.

“I could love you, Nate. But I won’t. Because you’re unlovable.”

“That makes absolutely no sense.”

“You have nice eyes.”

“Let’s get you inside.”

chapter EIGHT

“Your hair is so long.” I run my fingers through his gorgeous mane, grabbing the strands at the nape.

“I know how you like it,” Channing Tatum whispers into my neck, nuzzling closer.

Wrapping my leg around his torso, I pull him into me. His eyes bear down into mine, and I open my mouth for a kiss. Instead of entering my mouth, his tongue licks the sensitive skin next to my lower lip. I move to pull him deeper into me, but instead, he starts licking me more.

Sloppy.

Sopping.

Wet.

Cold.

His wide, wet tongue laps and licks my mouth. A cold wetness is surrounding my nose. I want Channing to kiss me, but he just slobbers around my face, and there is the distinct smell of—

“Holy shit!” I scream at the sight of the ginormous rottweiler staring at me.

I leap back so far and so fast that I fall, ass down, on the ground. Oh, man, that hurt. And I’m not talking about my ass. Raising a hand to my head, I rub the temple and try to calm the throbbing going on inside.

My mouth also tastes like I’ve been living in the Sahara for a month.

Getting my bearings, I rise up onto my knees and peer back up onto the bed. The animal is staring down with panting deep breaths striking directly in my face.

Looking around the room, there is not a single thing I recognize. The queen-size bed takes up most of the room. The walls are painted a deep gray, and there’s a navy-blue comforter under the rottweiler, sprinkled in black dog fur and a wee-wee pad, where I was sleeping. An alarm clock sits on the end table, and a single dresser is along the wall.

Not knowing where I am, I assess the situation, looking for my quickest escape. I am in a room. I am alone. I am—

Oh Christ!

My stomach nearly drops at the realization that I am wearing nothing but a bra and panties. Granted, they’re my good date-night set but still. I am naked. Alone. In a room that I presume is owned by a man.

Not again!

For a girl who doesn’t do one-night stands, I certainly have a way of finding myself in random men’s bedrooms.

That’s it. I am never drinking again.

Crawling on all fours, I look around the room for my clothes. They are nowhere to be found. I stand up and flip the comforter around, trying to find my skirt and shirt so that I can get the hell out of here.

There is a window, and if I were in anything other than my skivvies, I would consider climbing out. I open a door and find a closet that confirms the room does indeed belong to a man. That leaves door number two as my only means of egress.

Wrapping my body in the white sheet from the bed, I take tentative steps toward the door and open it. Peering around the doorframe, I see a small hallway, and I sniff the distinct smell of…
coffee
.

Walking down the small hallway, I make a left and am in a living room. A single sofa, TV, coffee table, and a bookshelf overflowing with books make up the modest furnishings in the room. To the right is a small table with two chairs, and beyond it is a kitchen with oak cabinets, a simmering coffee pot, and a six-foot whiskey-pouring devil bearing an unsightly smirk in appreciation of my current condition.

Wearing jeans, a navy T-shirt, and a San Francisco Giants cap, Nate has a coffee cup in his hands. His smile only disappears when the cup rises to his lips. “Morning, sunshine,” he says before taking a sip. “Sleep well?”

My tummy grumbles in part-hunger, part-aggravation, and mostly nerves.

What the hell did I do last night?

On the counter beside Nate is my purse. I leap forward and grab it, making sure to keep my sheet intact. “Where’s my phone?” My voice is slightly panicked as I notice it’s not in there.

“I plugged it in.” Nate makes a motion toward the dining table.

I have to text Naomi. She is probably freaking out that I never came home last night. I turn on my phone, expecting to see several missed calls and text messages. Instead, I just see the Home screen and the time.

“Naomi knows you’re safe,” he says from behind me.

I turn around and eye him in question.

“After you passed out, your phone starting blowing up with texts from her, so I texted her back and told her you were safe.”

Thumbing through my text messages, I see that Nate and Naomi sent a few messages back and forth last night. Some about my whereabouts and then some about what drunk Crystal is like.

“I don’t snore,” I scowl at him.

“Yes, you do. And Naomi confirmed you only do when you drink.”

Traitor. I am going to have a talk with that woman. And how did she know this random guy texting her wasn’t a crazed killer who had me tied up in bed? He could have been a sex freak.

Speaking of which, I ask, “Do I even want to know why I’m naked?”

Nate laughs into his cup and then puts it down on the counter, smashing his lips together, trying to contain the smile. “You stripped”—he points to the middle of the living room—“right there.”

My eyes are seriously bugging out of my head. I can feel them stretching and widening.

“We didn’t…” I make a hand motion, pointing from him to me and back.

“No”—the smirk vanishes from his face—“we did not.”

I let out a huge breath and sink into one of the chairs. “Thank God.”

“I offered you my shirt, but you passed out, ass up, in my bed, so I just let you sleep.” He opens a cabinet. “You were in no condition to drive last night, and you wouldn’t tell me where you lived, so I brought you here.”

Holding my sheet tight with my left hand, I rub my temple with my right. My head hurts, but it’s not as bad as it should be, considering the amount of whiskey I consumed.

Nate holds up a coffee cup in asking. I nod my head and accept. A nice hot cup of caffeine will do wonders.

“I had you drink a shit-ton of water before you passed out. There’s Tylenol on the table behind you.” Nate pours my coffee and pours Sambuca into it before handing it to me.

I pop a few pain relievers and take a drink of my coffee. “Thank you”—looking down at the table, I see a pile of mail—“Nathaniel Teller.”

As he rests both hands along the counter behind him, his chest and biceps twist and curl beneath the fabric of his T-shirt. He looks different in the daylight. His eyes are lighter, brighter, and his skin is clearer. Even his smile seems to make a few more appearances in the daylight.

If I recall correctly, he smiled a lot last night.

“I had fun last night,” I offer.

“Me, too.” He looks down with a grin. “I had to put a wee-wee pad under you in case you pissed yourself.”