Page 45 of The Best Man Wins

“Well, say something,” Braxton says. “Tell me I’m an ass, or—”

“You’re an ass.” I launch against him, closing the gap between us swiftly, and yank his lips down to meet mine. His freezes for a moment, going rigid with surprise, but then he meets my kiss with a deep, hungry reverence. All at once, I’m consumed by this dark, brooding, stubborn hunk of a man. He tastes the inside of my mouth as though he can’t get enough of me, drinking me in deeply. This kiss is different. He tastes vulnerable; for once, his shields are down. His desperation fuels my own, and I find myself clinging to the heavy fabric of his coat and whimpering against his lips.

I fall so deeply into his kiss that I lose my balance and stumble against him. “Whoops,” I laugh against his lips as I grip onto him for security.

He wets his lips, but his eyebrows knit in sudden concern. “You’re drunk. You taste like vodka and pineapple.”

“I’m fine. It’s just this parking lot…too many bumps in the asphalt…someone should write a letter about it, really, someone could hurt themselves on this stuff…”

Braxton presses his lips in a patient line. “I’m taking you home.”

“But…” I point lazily back to the tavern.

“Susie.” His voice is stern. Daddy’s angry. “Eventually, you’re going to have to stop worrying about everyone else and start worrying about yourself.” His eyes scan me. “Where’s your jacket?”

I pull my shoulders up around my ears. I don’t have a response to that.

He shrugs his coat off his shoulders and puts it around mine. I’m swallowed by it. “Text Cora. Let her know you’ve left. They’ll find their own way back to the house safely.”

I worry my bottom lip with my teeth, suddenly feeling like a chastised child. I’m supposed to be the professional, and here I am, bumming a ride off the best man because I’m too drunk to get myself home. I reluctantly nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

Braxton hooks his arm in mine and walks me to the car. He has borrowed Ray’s pickup truck, and I climb into the passenger seat of the growling monster. I don’t realize quite how drunk I am until the truck lurches forward and the trees and sky outside start to spin and blur together like some Vincent van Gogh painting. I try not to focus too hard on any one thing and tilt the cool air vent against my face. If Braxton notices, he says nothing. The radio is tuned onto some country rock station, but neither of us have the energy to bother to change it. The low, brassy tone of Johnny Cash’s voice is relaxing and it rocks me like a baby against her mother’s breast—

“Susie.” Braxton squeezes my shoulder. “We’re here.” His touch brings my body back to life. I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep, but when I wake up, my cheek is plastered to the ice-cold window.

“I’m awake,” I grumble. I pull his coat around me like a blanket.

“Stay there.”

Braxton’s door clicks shut. He walks around the truck and opens my door up for me.

“I can walk,” I protest.

He’s not in the mood for arguments. Braxton reaches over me, unbuckles my seat belt, and then lifts me out of the car seat. I keep forgetting how strong he is, for some reason. He’s so well proportioned, it’s easy to miss exactly how built his arms are until you really start looking. He carries me like I’m weightless, and I find myself clinging to him, my arms wrapped around his neck.

“What if Roxanne sees us?” I ask.

“She’s asleep,” he counters. “Everyone is in bed. So be quiet.”

I zip my lips. Braxton shifts me against his chest so he can unlock the door. Quietly, he pushes inside. Roxanne must have left the kitchen light on for the stragglers because it illuminates the living room and gives us enough light to maneuver around. This whole situation just strikes me as so absurd suddenly, and I try to hold back a giggle but do a poor job of it.

“Hush,” Braxton chastises, which only makes me snort louder, so I bury my face in his chest to stifle the sound.

Gently, he lowers me back to my feet. I balance myself with my hand on his chest. He’s all muscle underneath the softness of his shirt. Tin man indeed.

“I’m going to make you some tea,” he says.

That does, actually, sound amazing.

“You’re terribly good at this,” I observe out loud.

“Putting drunk girls to bed?”

“Taking care of people.”

He gives me a curt look. “Don’t move.”

“So bossy.” I yawn.

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