The Bookworm's Guide to Flirting (The Bookworm's Guide 3)

Giggles erupted from her room. “You talk so funny.”

“Are you covered up?” I asked, fighting back a smile.

“I’m in beeeeeed.”

Lovely.

I pushed the door open and peered in. She was, in fact, in bed, and she was tucked right up like a baby.

“Hi!” She grinned at me and snuggled in. “I love my bed. It’s so comfy. Wanna find out?”

“Okay, that’s enough from you.” I shook my head and handed her the water. “Here. You can’t spill this one, and if you do… Well, that’s on you.”

She shuffled so she was sitting up but thankfully still covered. “Can I sleep in your bed if I do?”

“No. Here.” I dropped the tablets into her hand. “Take those. You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

“I doubt that,” she muttered, throwing them into her mouth. She took a long drink before she set the bottle down on her nightstand. “Oh! Where’s my phone?”

“In your purse in my car,” I replied. “Do you need anything else?”

“I’m very tired.” She yawned, as if to make her point. “Thank you for looking after me.”

“You’re welcome.” I backed up to her bedroom door and hovered my hand over the light switch. “Goodnight.”

“I really would date the shit out of you.” Saylor yawned again, pulling the covers right up to her neck and closing her eyes. “I’d fuck it out of you, too.”

I stared at her for a moment.

Did she just—

Hell, I hoped my phone had caught that.

CHAPTER FIVE – SAYLOR

RULE FIVE: DO NOT EVER, EVER, TALK TO ANYONE WHILE YOU’RE DRUNK.

“Well, good morning, sunshine!”

I held up a finger and walked straight past a far-too-chipper Dylan on my way to the fridge. There, I grabbed an ice-cold bottle from the drawer and uncapped it, glugging several mouthfuls down in an attempt to alleviate my dry mouth.

The sound of something sliding across the counter made me pause, and when I looked down, I saw a small cardboard box.

Paracetamol.

Thank God.

I popped two pills out from the blister packet and threw them into my mouth before drinking more water to wash them down. Dylan watched me with a glint of amusement in his eyes as he sipped tea from his ‘British AF’ mug I’d bought him for Christmas as a joke.

I glared at him and put the cap back on the bottle. “You are far too chipper this morning.”

“Am I? Well, I had a great night last night and got a ton of compliments from my date, so I’m in a good mood.”

“What?” I frowned, leaning against the island. “You were with me last night.”

“Oh, boy. You don’t remember what happened after we all hit the bar, do you?”

I opened my mouth to reply that of course I remembered, but no memories came to the forefront of my mind.

I remembered everyone finishing eating, I remembered us paying the bill, I remembered us hitting the bar, and I remembered throwing back tequila shots with Tori.

I remembered her bitching about having to sit through a three-course dinner with Colton and how she was going to kill Kinsley, Holley, and Ivy.

I remembered… not a lot after that.

Or anything, actually.

That explained the headache that was threatening to make my brain explode.

“No,” I said slowly. I shook my head then winced and pressed my fingertips against my temple. That was a mistake.

“Oh, shit.” Dylan chuckled and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “This is going to be fun.”

“What is? Oh, God, what are you showing me?” My stomach tightened in a knot when he slid the phone across the counter to me.

“Hit play,” he said, once again hiding his smile behind his mug.

“I don’t think I want to,” I said warily, looking at the screen. There was a blurred image of what looked like me on the floor. “Am I… on the floor?”

“Yes. You spilt water everywhere then tried to rescue it from the carpet.” He paused. “Then tried to rescue the carpet from the water.”

“Oh, God. Now I know I don’t want to watch it.”

“It gets better.”

“For you, maybe. For me, it can surely only get worse.”

This time, he didn’t hide his grin. “I can either tell you or you can watch for yourself.”

“Say it.” I pressed my hand against my forehead and looked down. “Go on. Rip off the Band-Aid.”

“After I convinced you that the paracetamol I gave you had a popcorn lifeboat and would not drown—”

I groaned.

“You realized your dress was wet and demanded I take it off.”

Oh, no.

“I refused and sent you to bed, where you insisted that I had to help you because it was a zipper and you couldn’t reach it. And you’d worn it in the hope someone would take it off you.”

Now that part I remembered.

The putting the dress on. Not Dylan undressing me.

“Keep going,” I muttered.

“I went to get you more water and some more paracetamol, and when I came back, you were in bed.”