Mia nods quickly. “Oh, sure. Yeah, I get it. Sorry, I was just trying—”
“No, I know. It’s not you, it’s… I mean, it is, but it’s not your fault. I need to leave you to do your dishes or whatever.”
Mia nods again, with less enthusiasm. “Sorry.”
“But hey, if you still feel like breaking some rules tomorrow, count me in.”
She smiles. “Okay. I’ll let you know.”
I flee the kitchen for the safety of the Mia-free dining room. Carly is leaning against the table, playing on her phone while she waits for me. Seeing her feels like seeing a beacon of light, like I’m a ship caught up in a storm, feeling lost for a moment, like I’ll never find home—and then I see her, and I can see again. The path to safety is clear, and it’s giving me my favorite sultry little smile.
“All done?” she asks, pushing off the table.
I nod, but I don’t stop until I have my arms around her waist. I pull her close and kiss her. She’s faintly surprised, but she wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me back.
“Uh oh, is this the shampoo situation all over again?” she asks, lightly.
I roll my eyes. “No. I’m just happy to see you.”
“Mm hmm.” She doesn’t seem to believe me, but she reaches down and takes my hand anyway. “I think we should go out on the town. I think a break away from Morelli manor would do you some good.”
“Agreed.”
Carly nods and pulls her phone back out. Since we don’t have a car here, we have to call for one. “So, what did you two talk about? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I just felt like I needed to apologize to her.”
Carly shoots me a smile. “I’m so proud of you.”
—
Carly is hitting the vodka and cranberry hard tonight.
I might have noticed earlier, but I am similarly attacking the whiskey like I’ll get a prize if I finish the bottle myself.
“Alcohol is the fucking best,” Carly informs me, dipping down with a giggle to retrieve her glass and tip it back.
“It really is,” I agree, staring at the amber liquid like it’s my soul mate. “I swear to God, I wouldn’t have survived without it. I would’ve gone on a rage bender years ago.”
“I’m glad you’re not usually an angry drunk,” she informs me. “Angry drunks are the worst.”
“I’ve been an angry drunk before, but I think I was just angry, period.”
She tips back her glass, draining the rest of it. Standing up, she pushes her boobs up and leans over the bar. “Hey, sweetie. When you get a minute, I’m gonna need another.”
I grin stupidly. “Sweetie? You call people sweetie?”
“Drunk Carly calls men sweetie. Drunk Carly usually doesn’t pay for her own drinks either, but whatever.”
“You don’t have to buy your drinks. I’ll buy your drinks. I’ve got a stupid fucking inheritance coming.”
“I know. I sort of hate that. Is that weird?”
“Probably. Why do you hate it?”
The bartender comes over to bring Carly her drink, and she orders me one while he’s over here. Then she sits back down and turns her attention back to me. “Because money makes everything fucking complicated. If you like a guy who’s dead broke, no one questions you. But if you like a guy who comes with money, you’re a gold-digging floozy. Even if his money has nothing to do with it, even if you’d like him regardless, once money is involved, it’s automatically about money—even if it isn’t.”
I crack a smile. “You liked me when you thought I was a terrible burglar who couldn’t afford to heat his apartment. And you better more than like me,” I tell her, grabbing her wrist and yanking her into my lap. She twists until she’s straddling me, leaning her forehead against mine.
“I have so many regrets,” she murmurs.
“You can’t have regrets,” I tell her, keeping her close. “You’re the one who says everything happens for a reason.”
“Sober Carly says that. Drunk Carly has regrets,” she announces.
“What are your regrets?”
“Can’t tell you,” she mutters, reaching back for her drink and taking a sip. She manages to put it back down without spilling any, then she turns her attention back to me, wiggling her hips and grinding against me. “We could do more fun things than talk.”
My hands slide down to cup her ass, pulling her against me. “We could. Probably not right here in front of all these people, though.”
“Let’s get drunk. Or, wait, we’re already drunk. Let’s finish our alcohol and get a hotel room. Let’s not go back to that house tonight. We can go back tomorrow.”
“I don’t know if we’re allowed,” I tell her.
“Fuck that,” she says, suddenly spirited. “Mateo isn’t our keeper! We’re getting a hotel room,” she decides, climbing gracelessly off my lap and grabbing her drink. The bartender is still over here, so she takes a break from gulping her drink to say, “We need to close our tab, please.”