Page 23 of The Bad Girl List

He blinks. “You have to … drink until you puke?”

“Yeah.” Did I mention that alcohol also leaves me with no respect for my own privacy? “My boyfriend dumped me two months ago and moved out. My cousin says it’s a good thing because I wasted five years of my life on a guy who never put me first, but it still sucks that he cheated on me with his tennis partner, you know? I live in Frisco and have to cover rent by myself. Things were tight, but I was making it until two days ago. Then I decided to be a rebel, and I’m never a rebel, you know? Like, the number of bad and irresponsible things I’ve done in my life could be counted on one hand. But I decided to rebel against my boss and she fired me for it. It takes almost my entire month’s paycheck to cover my rent. My cousin said I can move in with her for a few months until I get back on my feet, but I have to complete everything she put on this weird checklist while we’re on vacation.”

“I … that’s a lot to unpack.” He squints, like he’s looking at a complicated math equation, even though he’s just looking at a girl in wine-stained clothing with a penchant for run-on sentences when she’s drunk. “So drinking until you puke is one of the things on the list?” he asks. “Did you just say you have a vacation checklist?”

“Yes to both things.”

“Was drawing bar patrons in your notebook also part of your list?”

I opt not to answer his embarrassing question, and instead choose to deflect. “It’s not a notebook.”

“What?”

“I don’t draw in a notebook. Notebooks have lines. I draw in a sketchbook.”

“If I was sober, I would probably argue that point with you, but I’m so drunk that I soaked both your boobs in Wine Away before I realized what I was doing. You know your clothes are wrecked, right?”

“I know.” I don’t mention they’re my favorite pair of pants.

He starts unbuttoning his shirt.

A herd of horses begins thundering through my bloodstream. “What are you doing?” I lick my lips, thinking again of number ten on the Bad Girl List. Could I talk Trevor into that? Do I want to?

“Take my shirt.” He holds it out to me.

Holy crap. I blink several times as I take in his perfect chest. His skin is smooth and taut, his abs firm and defined. Not in the I-do-Crossfit-and-take-supplements kind of way, but in the I-work-the-land kind of way. Pale hair dusts his lower abs and disappears into his pants. More soft curls of hair cover his chest.

“If I was into porn, I think you’d be my version of it.”

“What?”

I jump as I realize I’d just said that out loud. My body tingles with nervous energy. “Nothing.” I snatch his shirt and spin around, glance over the car to make sure no one is around, then stuff his button-down between my thighs and whip off my cotton tee.

I hadn’t intended to take his clothes, but I’m committed now. My bra is soaked through, reeking from the combination of wine and Wine Away. I take that off, too. As I wad up my clothes and balance them on the Tesla’s fender, I catch Trevor staring at my bare back. Our eyes meet. Heat unfurls in my core.

“If I was into porn, I think you’d be my version of it, too,” he says, deadpan.

Oh, God. I can’t tell if he’s serious or teasing me. I want to crawl under the car and disappear.

“I didn’t mean to say that out loud. I’m really drunk.” If he can use that as an excuse, so can I. Besides, it’s legit in both our cases.

I slide my arms into his shirt. It smells like earth and sweat mixed with a spicy deodorant. I resist the urge to bury my nose in the fabric and inhale the scent of Trevor. I can do that later, when he’s not standing behind me. “Are you really trying to pretend you don’t like porn? I thought all guys liked that sort of thing.”

“I’m going to take the fifth on that one. I’ve gotten myself into enough trouble tonight. Do you want me to take those to the dry cleaners for you?” He points to my shirt and bra.

“It’s okay.” I turn around and face him. His denim shirt hangs down to my knees.

He drags his eyes up and down my body. It’s a slow, drunken assessment that intensifies the pressure building between my legs. Even though we’ve just met, I get the feeling he likes the way his shirt hangs on me.

Feeling unexpectedly bold, I reach under the shirt and unbutton my pants.

“What are you doing?”

“This thing is like a dress on me.” The pants drop down around my ankles. “Since my outfit is ruined, I might as well make the best of your shirt.” I kick my feet free of the sodden pants, grab my belt, and cinch it around my waist.

The effect almost makes his giant shirt look like a denim dress. Almost. My ankle socks and tennis shoes round out the look.

Holding up my arms, I turn in a circle for him. “What do you think? Wine-country chic, or walk of shame?”

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