Casual Affair

“How in the bloody hell did that just happen?” Zane demanded, giving her body another once-over—probably to make sure she didn’t have a plastic tube running out of her somewhere.

She could feel every place his gaze touched her, sending shivers down her spine.

“Fast metabolism and a lot of house parties in college,” she said with a grin, then left them sitting there speechless and went to go retrieve their loser shots from the bar.

When she placed the glasses down in front of them, Mike asked warily, “What is it?”

“You probably don’t want to know until after.”

Zane shook his head and blew out a curse under his breath. “A deal is a deal.” He held out his glass to Mike, clinking them together. “To God and country.”

They tipped their heads back and swallowed down the offending liquid. She shuddered just thinking about what they were drinking, knowing it was nothing short of disgusting.

Their coughing fits lasted a good two minutes, their throats and stomachs rejecting the substance. She knew it wasn’t nice to laugh, but she couldn’t help it.

“Not your cup of tea?” she mocked in her best British accent.

Zane let out a, “Bollocks!” as he tried to catch his breath.

At the same time Mike shouted, “Bloody Christ!” before chasing the shot with the rest of his beer.

“My God, woman. What was that?” Zane asked as he chugged down half a glass of water sitting on the table.

“Gorilla Puke.”

Their heads simultaneously whipped up. Mike asked, “Do we even want to know what that is?”

She faked a sweet expression that felt more devilish than anything. “Bacardi rum and Wild Turkey bourbon whiskey. Stuff is lethal. But you both took it like champs. I only saw a few tears.”

“Oh, this isn’t over,” Zane said in his deep, rumbling voice.

Her lady bits perked right up. “No?”

“No. This means war.”

Chapter Ten

War, indeed.

War with her stomach.

Bea had thought the beer thing would teach them a lesson, but it had totally backfired. Zane and Mike had some pretty awful shots of their own up their sleeves.

When the three of them started competing in darts and shuffleboard, boy, had they pulled out the big guns. Cement Mixer. Motor Oil. Prairie Fire.

Bleh. Worst. Idea. Ever.

And because alcohol was a bastard, she kept forgetting all the reasons why she wasn’t supposed to sleep with Zane. As the night progressed, the idea looked more and more appealing.

Thankfully, so far she had been victorious in the test of her willpower.

She wasn’t sure how much longer that would last, though.

The hardest test would be when they said good night. Which was about to happen.

Please, God, let me be strong.

“I like thish bird, mate,” Mike slurred as they stepped out of the bar onto the sidewalk in front. The guy wasn’t as good at bar games as he liked to think, and he’d gotten trashed.

“Thanks,” she said with a loopy grin, though the statement hadn’t been directed at her. Even though she had won most of the games, she still had a nice buzz going.

“Schee makes you laugh, and women never make you laugh,” Mike continued, his body tipping precariously to one side.

Zane looked embarrassed by that assessment. “Mike—”

“Plus, schee haz a higher al-cohol tolerance than moscht of the blokesh I know. And that’s schomething to be admired.”

“Clearly, a higher one than you,” Zane muttered, throwing an arm out when Mike stumbled. “Whoa. I’ll call you an Uber. Okay?”

Mike nodded and slapped Zane’s arm. “Oi, thanksh, Mum, but I’ll juscht get a cab.” He turned to Bea and bowed dramatically as he laid a sloppy kiss on her hand. “It was an abscholute pleaschure. I do hope we’ll be scheeing each other again schoon, my lady.”

She stifled a laugh but curtsied in as ladylike a fashion as she could manage. “The pleasure was all mine, good sir.”

Zane rolled his eyes, and Mike laughed, slapping his back. “Yep, schee’s a good one.” They watched as he flagged down a taxi, poured himself into it, and took off down the street.

There were a few moments of heavy silence. Neither she nor Zane seemed to know what to do or say.