Page 69 of The Fangirl and the Grump

ChapterThirty

Keegan

The shipment of vodka Planter’s promised us arrived at the lodge yesterday, so Pressley and I have spent this whole Sunday afternoon setting everything up and getting ready to film. It’s only mid-afternoon when we’re ready to start, but hell, it’s five o’clock somewhere, so we put on our cutest pajamas, attach Pressley’s phone to her ring light stand, and start filming.

Nineties pop music plays in the background as we dance around and combine several different flavors of vodka with various mixers, add fruit garnishes to make them look pretty, then taste them. We ooh and ahh over the ones we love, which are most of them, then move on to the next.

By the time we’ve finished, we’ve cracked open five bottles of vodka and are feeling more than a little tipsy. Pressley ends the recording, proclaiming the editing will have to wait until tomorrow when we’re sober. Neither of us is ready for the party to end, though, so I send out a group text to Trace, Willow, and Bram, ordering them to get their asses over here. They each respond in the affirmative, and Pressley squeals and rushes into her room to change into something sexy enough to impress Bram.

I, on the other hand, know Trace would think I’m sexy in a potato sack, so I just keep dancing while sipping on my favorite drink of the day––grape-flavored vodka and lemonade with a splash of lemon-lime soda on top.

I shake my ass as I hand wash our dirty glasses. We used every one we could find, and if I don’t, our guests won’t have anything to drink from. It’s no easy feat––I’m drunk and my fingers aren’t really obeying my commands––but I somehow manage to do it without breaking a single one.

Giving myself a high-five for the accomplishment, I slurp down the rest of my cocktail and am in the middle of mixing another when there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in, bitches!” I shout over the music, and the door swings open. Willow steps inside with a wide smile, followed by Bram, then Trace.

My whole body lights up when I see him, and I rush forward, slamming into his chest. I probably should’ve put my very full glass down first, though, because most of it sloshes over the edge to soak his light gray t-shirt.

“Shit,” he gasps, jerking out of my sloppy embrace.

“Oops,” I slur. “Sorry, Wolf Daddy. My bad.”

Trace’s eyes narrow, but before I can apologize again, Willow grabs my elbow and pulls me away.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she says as I glance over my shoulder at Trace.

“He looks mad. Why is he mad?” I ask Willow as she pulls me into the kitchen. “I apologized for spilling my drink on him.”

“Maybe because you called him Wolf Daddy?” she offers, taking the drink from my hand and setting it on the counter.

“No,” I say, snatching it back up the moment she turns her back to find a dish towel. “Pressley called him that when she was drunk, and he didn’t get mad ather.”

“Pressley’s not his girlfriend,” Willow says, taking my drink away again before I can take another long sip.

“I’m not either,” I say, then go still. Well, not completely still, but as still as a swaying drunk personcango. “Am I?”

Willow shakes her head. “Okay. Pressley’s not the girl he’s having a summer fling with. Is that better?”

“No,” I say honestly. “Maybe Iwantto be his girlfriend.”

Willow freezes, her eyes trained over my shoulder. I turn on unsteady feet to see Trace, Pressley, and Bram standing behind me. Pressley’s staring at me with wide eyes, but I don’t know why and I honestly don’t care.

“Trace,” I breathe, forgetting what Willow and I were just talking about, completely. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

I stumble toward him and wrap my arms around his middle. I don’t know why his shirt feels wet against my cheek, then I remember I spilled my drink on him and tilt my head back to meet his dark gaze.

“I’m sorry about the drink.” I pause to waggle my eyebrows. At least, I think that’s what I do. “Maybe you should take your shirt off.”

“Excuse us, please,” Trace grumbles, then wraps his fingers around my upper arm and pulls me down the hall and into the bathroom.

Once we’re closed inside, he picks me up and sets me on the counter before grabbing a towel off the rack and blotting his shirt with it. Leaning forward, I slip my hands beneath the wet material and stroke my fingers up and down his abs before plucking at the button on his jeans.

He drops the towel and grips my wrists, saying, “What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” I reply, trying to sound coy.

“I’m not going to fuck you in a bathroom, in a house full of people, while you’re drunk, Keegan.”

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