Page 80 of Wicked Sins

I put the glass down in a rush. “I don’t like this.”

“You haven’t even tried it.”

“Don’t need to.”

“You’re sure?”

I can’t be, but I am. Where I’d been yearning for that first sip of wine, the crisp taste on my tongue, my stomach is turning over at just the smell of the whiskey.

“One sip,” he says, lifting his glass and putting it to his lips as if I need a damn tutorial on how to imbibe alcoholic beverages.

Every cell in my body is telling me to stop, but for some reason, I don’t want Josiah to think I’m afraid.

Afraid?

It’s ridiculous.

I’ve had everything to drink, even some stuff you definitely shouldn’t, like mouthwash.

Gotta try everything once.

Strange—that thought isn’t mine, but it’s still familiar. Who told me that? One of Mom’s boyfriends?

I shake away the thought and bring my glass to my lips, watching Josiah over the brim as I touch it to my mouth. His gaze shifts, and he watches me take a sip. I should have felt uncomfortable with how long his gaze lingered on my lips, but instead, I just wanted to make sure he saw that I’d actually had a drink.

Cool, smoky liquid coats my tongue like oil. Not a lot makes it down my throat, but what does scorches. I clear my throat, shudder, and hastily put the glass down. “Yuck.”

Joah laughs, snatches the glass from me, and tips it into his mouth. Then he turns around again and reaches for a bottle of strawberry-and-cream liqueur. “Guess you’ll want something like—”

“Not that one,” I say.

My body’s gone tight. I never noticed the bottle before now, as if Joah somehow magicked it into existence. Or, perhaps, I hadn’t trusted myself to see it until there was someone else in the room.

I drink wine because sometimes Idostop before the bottle is empty. But this stuff? I’ve only ever had it poured for me, so I have no idea how much I can drink.

What I do know is that I never remember getting back to bed. I don’t remember changing into my PJs, or brushing my teeth, or getting myself painkillers and a tall glass of water for my nightstand.

“This?” Josiah holds out the bottle of Bailey’s.

Tell him to put it back.

I nod.

Don’t let him pour.

Creamy liquid sloshes into the tumbler.

Don’t you dare take it.

My hand moves of its own, closing around the glass. I bring it to my nose and inhale deeply.

“Shall we toast?”

With my eyes closed, it’s as if Wayne is standing on the other side of the bar. When they open, the difference is much more tangible. I guess Josiah has some of his mother in him.

“To what?” I ask in a thick voice.

“To funerals,” he says grimly, holding out his crystal tumbler.

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