Page 73 of David

So why did I have to say what I just said to him?

His eyes coast over my face.

He’s not as tipsy as I am.

My smile turns into hesitancy.

“I need to go,” I say quietly, retrieving my hand and pushing my chair back.

He tips his gaze up as I rise.

The room spins with me while I stagger to my feet.

“Are you all right?” he asks, straightening out of his seat and looping an arm around me.

The sensation of falling only intensifies with him close to me.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

I flash an unconvincing grin.

“I think I drank too much.”

“I’ll take you home.”

“No need to. I’m okay. I just need to get a cab.”

“You’ll get a car.”

He lifts his other hand to my face and brushes my hair back.

“You’re sweating, “ he says, running his thumb over my brow, erasing a thin film of warm moisture.

“I’m usually sweating like that when…”

I stop, embarrassed yet still very much entertained.

My inhibitions slowly devolve into a strange desire for this man.

Despite being slightly inebriated, everything I said to him about the morning after was correct.

David Moore is a bad idea for too many reasons, and he entirely agrees with me.

One of the reasons is reflected on his face, although his apparent coldness seems to disagree with his heated body.

But he is here, helping me… Sure. Also, having second thoughts––like me. If we can call them that.

“You can sleep here if you don’t feel well. My driver will take you home in the morning.”

He means it––I learn––as he tips his chin down, emphasizing the seriousness of his words.

“Where will you sleep?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“Are you going to that woman’s place?”

“No.”

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