Page 28 of Dear Rosie

Presley shakes her head. “I gotta drive home.”

“Oh, duh.” I knew this.

Usually we ride together in my catering van, but with the location of this house, it made sense for Presley to pick me up on her way over and put all the food in the back of her vehicle. And since we don’t both need to be here for the final cleanup, I’m just going to catch an Uber home.

“Plus,” Presley starts, putting the leftover food into containers, “booze isn’t my drug of choice. And I got a brownie at home calling my name.”

I snort. “Maybe sneak a little to-go container of the apps into your bag. You might need it later.”

Presley presses a hand to her chest. “Best boss ever.”

I lift my mug of champagne in a mock toast.

We pack up the food.

I take another drink.

We load the dishwasher.

Presley refills my mug when I’m not looking.

We hand-wash the pots and saucepans.

I have some more bubbly.

We unload and reload the dishwasher.

I send Presley home. And I polish off my mug.

Leaning against the counter, waiting for the dishwasher to complete its cycle, I eye the bottle on the island next to myempty mug.

The bottle is half-gone. I’m more than half-buzzed. But…

I press my lips together and close the distance.

Knowing it’s probably a bad idea, I pour some more champagne into my mug.

I’m not driving.

I shouldn’t have to interact with anyone else tonight.

I can have a little more.

I stop pouring when my mug is a third full. But then a glass slides across the countertop.

It’s a low-ball glass, empty except for a single ice cube, telling me it used to be filled with some sort of hard liquor.

Surrounding the glass are long, masculine fingers.

I don’t have to look farther to know whose hand it is.

I don’t have to, but I can’t help it.

Muscular forearms.

White sleeves rolled up.

Biceps bunched under the bright material.

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