Page 8 of Kiss and Make Love

“Let me help. Which one is it?” he asked, taking the ring of keys from her shaky hands.

Was she shaky because the alcohol was coursing through her very drunk body, or for another reason? Mr. Monroe stood awfully close. He smelled like one of those idiotic body washes for men named something like Power or Thunderhead or Atlas. Heaven forbid a man have a scent like an actual scentedthing. No, they had to smell like a powerfulconcept. So stupid.

His body wash was probably called something like Sunburst or Daylight or Brilliance. A happy soap, not a powerful one. Though after his display tonight with Chad, she didn’t doubt that he could be powerful.

“Spencer?” he asked, holding up the key ring. “Your house key?” He pressed his lips together. She could tell he was trying not to laugh at her.

Oh god. She was a walking disaster right now, wasn’t she?

“Shit. The black one. It’s the all-black key.”

Locating the key, he slipped it into the lock and opened the door for her. Stepping back, he gestured for her to go inside.

“Thanks again, Mr. Monroe.”

“Considering the circumstances and how many times you talked about my cock tonight, I think you can call me Brett when we’re outside of the classroom.”

Her stomach did a ridiculous flutter. She stepped past him and into the foyer of her modest little home.

“Thanks, Brett.”

“You’re welcome, Spencer. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You will?” Her eyes went wide. He wanted to see her again? Outside of school?

He looked up briefly, shaking his head, before connecting with her gaze once again. “You have my class at noon.”

“Oh, right,” she rubbed her forehead. A headache was building behind her left eye. “See you then.”

“Goodnight.” He smiled one last time at her, turned, and walked down the steps to the street.

Spencer quickly shut and locked the door. What an utter fool she’d made of herself tonight. Banging her head against the wall would knock some sense into her, but the pressure behind the front of her skull told her that was a bad idea.

She shuffled to her bedroom, peeling off her clothes along the way. Now sober enough to understand how ridiculous this whole situation was, she flopped down on her bed and let out a long sigh.

Drinking so much wasn’t a habit, but with the end of her program approaching, she was more stressed than usual. Not to mention dealing with Llewellyn’s absurd antics and her very confusing feelings for her psychology professor.

The overwhelming need to close her eyes settledover her like a weighted blanket. Six shots and four drinks were way too many for her to handle without having some sort of memory lapse. She sent a quick text to herself to read in the morning in case she forgot any of tonight’s events.

You texted Good Butt bout sweater vest things. He drove you home. You are drunk right now and you said stupid things. Cocks. You should say sorry in morning. Sweatpants looked goooood. Like, soooo good. I think Brett likes you likes you?

What.

In the.

Holy.

Hell.

Her head pounded, and her mouth must’ve had a hundred cotton balls shoved inside of it. Reaching for the ever-present glass of water by her bed, she took a huge gulp. Three-day-old water was much more tolerable than her dry mouth.

What happened?

Start at the beginning.

Well, Becca took her out last night. They were at Jack’s Pub. She remembered not stopping after several drinks and continuing on with shots. Lots of shots.

The night was basically a blur. Becca left for home, she stayed to watch horrendous karaoke. Bon Jovi. Madonna. A guy named Chad. Lots of text messages to…

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