Page 61 of The Fangirl and the Grump

Laughter rumbles in his chest as the hand on my back slides down to my ass, rubbing it gently. “I wouldn’t complain.”

I tilt my head back to look up at him, and he leans down, softly brushing his lips over mine. It’s such a simple kiss, yet at the same time, catastrophic. Something snaps in my chest and heat rushes in as I realize I could get used to this.

And not just during our temporary, casual fling.

I could get used to this…for forever.

Before I can work myself into a blind panic over the epiphany, the front door slams open and a banshee’s wail threatens to puncture my eardrums. I twist around so forcefully, my neck cracks. I see Pressley, a hand pressed firmly over her eyes, slowly backing toward the doorway. Then she pauses, reaches out and blindly searches for the door handle with her free hand, shouts a slurred apology, and pulls the door closed behind her as she steps back outside.

I look back at Trace, who’s staring at me with wide eyes, then we simultaneously burst into laughter. I slide off his lap in search of my clothes, then find his underwear and toss them at him.

“I thought she was staying with Willow,” he says as he pulls them on.

“I thought so, too,” I say, hastily pulling on my own underwear before grabbing the rest of my clothes and darting into my room.

Pulling on some comfy pajama shorts and a tank top, I find Trace fully dressed and heading for the door. I join him there as he pulls it open, and we find Pressley standing on the other side, her hand still over her eyes as she stifles a round of tipsy giggles.

“Pressley?” I call out, and she burps, setting off another round of drunken laughter.

“Is everybody decent?” she asks.

“You can open your eyes, goofball,” I say, and when she slowly lowers her hand, I grab her wrist and pull her inside.

“I’ll see you later,” Trace says, stepping out once we pass him.

“You don’t have to go,” I offer, and he shakes his head before shooting a pointed look at my inebriated friend.

“I’ll text you later.”

I mouth the word “sorry,” but he shakes it off with a smile.

“Don’t leave on my account,Wolf Daddy,” Pressley says with a giggle.

My eyes widen as I slap a hand over Pressley’s mouth, but Trace doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t even look slightly irritated. He just shoots me a wink, then spins around to jog down the stairs, a jaunty whistle streaming from his lips as he goes.

“Pressley,” I say once I close the door behind him, “what are you doing here?”

“I live here,” she sighs, then stumbles over to plop down on the couch.

“I thought you were staying with Willow.”

“Oh…yeah,” she says with a pout. “Willow made mimosas, but she added vodka to them, too, the little sneaky-sneak. But joke’s on her. She passed out first, and I saw a ghost, so I came home.”

“You saw a ghost?” I ask as I slouch onto the couch next to her.

“Yep. It was a hot werewolf ghost with glowing eyes.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t the life-size cut-out of Lucas Lumin she bought for the store?” I ask, remembering Willow saying it was delivered to her house on accident.

“No,” she says, then wrinkles her brow. “Maybe. I don’t know. Hey. Is it safe to sit here? I don’t feel any wet spots, but I’m drunk.”

“Shut up,” I say with a laugh, and she starts giggling again.

“I’m sorry, Keegs. I didn’t think about you being here with Wolf Daddy. I should’ve thought.”

“It’s okay, Press. I’m just glad you made it back okay and didn’t pass out in a ditch somewhere along the way.”

“Me, too,” she says on a sigh. “Willow tried to get me drunk to drill me about Bram.”

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