Page 106 of Cherry Picking

“Don’t,” I mutter.

“I didn’t say a word.”

“You smiled.”

“I did.” He doesn’t look away. “You look unbelievable.”

Four days of scruff on his jaw and that black T-shirt I have very detailed memories of. He’s leaning against my railing at one in the morning, looking like the answer to a question nobody asked. The man is so unfairly, ridiculously handsome it’s genuinely offensive.

Still, I’m absolutely furious at him.

“Go.” I point a finger toward the ground. “Down. That way. Bye.”

“Baby, can we just talk for a minute?”

I scrunch my nose. “Not your baby.”

“Pretty girl.”

“Shhhh.” I press a finger against his sternum. “You’ve forfeited that one, too.”

“Come on.” His hand moves to my elbow to steady me. “Let’s get inside before your neighbors call the cops.”

The lock is being uncooperative. I jam the key in on the third attempt, but it won’t budge. Briggs steps up behind me and covers my hand with his. He’s radiating heat as he tilts the key a fraction of an inch and lifts.

The door swings open like a traitor.

“It sticks,” he says.

“Everyone knows that.”

I kick my shoes off just past the threshold—one of them skittering toward the kitchen—and manage to make it to the couch before my legs give up. I collapse sideways across the cushions, dress riding up my thigh in a manner I decline to acknowledge.

Briggs shuts the door and stands in the center of my living room.

“Water,” I mutter into a pillow.

“Yeah.”

“There’s a glass with a chip in the rim. Don’t use that one.”

I listen to him navigate the cabinet and the tap. Then he’s back, setting the glass on the coffee table.

He lifts my ankles, sits at the far end of the sofa, and settles my legs across his lap. His thumb finds the arch of my foot, and I let it stay there, because I’m drunk and weak and my feet are throbbing.

“I’m sorry, Evie.”

I crack one eye open. “For what? For being the world’s most incompetent communicator? For being a total dickhead?”

“Yes.”

“Hmph.” I close the eye again. “What else?”

“For flying into your city and not saying a word.” He continues rubbing my foot. “I landed at six yesterday morning. I’ve been here nineteen hours.”

“I know exactly how long you’ve been here. I found out from a website that critiques the paranormal activity of shitty chain restaurants.”

“I’m really sorry.”