How to Ruin a Wedding(48)

“Lucinda!” Anders calls, grabbing my arm.

As he pulls me to a stop, I realize I’ve made it to the parking lot. “Give me the keys.”

“Lucinda,” he says again.

With the floodlights illuminating the area, my gaze catches on the damp patch I left on Anders’s thigh. “Oh my God.” I press my hands over my face. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

“We,” Anders says. “That wasn’t just you.”

“I remained sober to have some self-control,” I say into my hands. “This isn’t appropriate. We’re basically coworkers.”

Anders pries my hands from my face and replaces them with his own. “There’s nothing wrong with what we just did.”

I open my mouth, then bite my tongue. Clearly, even sober, I can’t act rationally around Anders.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” I ask.

“Whatever thoughts you’re having, wishing you could take it back.”

“I don’t want to take it back,” I say without thinking. “I’m not some naive virgin, Anders. We’re two consenting adults who, under any other circumstance, could hook up without a second thought. This—this is just messy. And sober Anders will agree with me. Drunk Anders—well, I don’t even know who you are at this moment.”

He chuckles, and the sound somehow eases the worry seeping into my bones. “Lucinda, I think you’re overreacting,” he says. “And for the record, when I’m sober, I’ll want you just the same—I have since the day I met you.”

“No!” I shout, making us both jump, then laugh. “No, I told you. You can’t say things like that to me. Don’t be romantic. Or sexy. Don’t be anything. Just—just be quiet.”

Anders brings his thumb up, tracing my bottom lip. “Let’s do what you wanted before. You’re too frantic right now. I don’t want you to feel rushed or panicked. We can revisit this conversation.”

“I wish you’d agreed to that before I dry-humped you on the freaking pool table.”

“That was far from dry,” he says, and my jaw drops open.

He presses a hand against his mouth so I won’t see the shit-eating grin I’m sure is there.

“Shut up,” I say. “Stop laughing!”

“Stop making me laugh.”

“I’m not being funny,” I say, but the laughter spills out anyway.

“Let’s go home,” he says.

I groan at the use of the word home. I am, already, in way too deep.





15.


Thank God Anders’s second bedroom has its own bath—and that I left a bag of chips on the bedside table so I have something for breakfast. I haven’t left the room since I woke up at five this morning.

My internal debate has ping-ponged among approaches for confronting Anders today. All of them make me want to scream into a pillow—which I have done several times already—and none of them feels right. Of course, that’s because yesterday should never have happened.

I should have just been drunk. It’s the oldest and easiest trick in the book. I was drunk, my head wasn’t on straight. I don’t know how that happened. Or, if I’d had an egregious amount of alcohol: Morning. I feel horrible; what happened last night?

Instead, I have to navigate the fact that I behaved that way completely sober.

To be fair, Anders is not entirely innocent in last night’s events. I simply catalyzed his drunk and flirtatious behavior. Though “flirtatious” seems like an understatement for my spreading my legs in the middle of a crowded bar.

He’s knocked twice, and each time I’ve flung myself onto the bed and pretended to be asleep. I have no doubt he heard the movement, particularly when I snagged my toe on the bed frame and cursed, but he hasn’t forced me out yet.

Maybe I should let him take the lead in the conversation. He’s the one paying me; he’s the one who, though drunk, very obviously wanted to get me in his bed. It’ll be best if he’s sober now and says, Though it would be plenty fun hooking up, with the current situation between us, it’s best if we maintain whatever semblance of professionalism we can.

Anders is a reasonable man. I’m sure that’s the conclusion he’s come to this morning. And if, for some reason, he hasn’t, I have no issue taking the lead in the conversation. It’s fine. I’m an adult. He’s an adult. We’re all adults.

Good, great, amazing.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I bullet out of the room and head straight for the sound of coffee brewing. As soon as I reach the kitchen, my body stalls and my mind empties like a TV unplugged from its outlet mid-show.

“Well, well,” Bethany says, a cherry-patterned dress clinging to her body as she pours milk into a glass. “Look who finally woke up. How much did you have to drink last night?”

Olive, in a matching dress beside her, rushes toward me. She sniffs the air and frowns. “You smell pretty good.”

As opposed to reeking of liquor, I assume. “Good morning to you too,” I greet both of them.

Olive pokes my side. “We’ve been here for hours,” she says, approaching Bethany again. “You missed watching Iron Man with us.”