Page 29 of Holding On To Good

This time, Urban dropped his head and looked at the floor.

Must be checking the place out, top to bottom.

That’s when she remembered. “We did! It’s ’cause we’re going to buy this house. Isn’t it pretty?” She swept her hands wide and swung around—and almost did a faceplant. Luckily, Urban caught her before she fell.

Leaning against him, she looked up at him in awe. “You have catlike reflexes.” She laid her free hand on his chest, felt the strong, steady beat of his heart. “You’re like a ninja cat! So fast!”

Urban sighed hard, his breath ruffling her hair. “How about you give me the bottle?”

She held it out at arm’s length. “I won’t hit you.”

Too bad his arms were longer than hers and he plucked it from her then held it up to the fading sunlight. Wiggled it as if testing its weight. “Did you drink all of this by yourself?”

“I think the giant rat had some. When I wasn’t looking.” The room still tilted even though she was almost certain she was standing upright. “Do you want some?”

“No.”

“No drinking on duty? Good idea.” She straightened and the world spun again. “The first thing we should do is even this room out. It’s lopsided.”

“I’ll put that on the list. Come on,” he said, tugging her gently along as he headed toward the foyer.

But this floor was tippy, too, and she had to lean against him to maintain her balance. “Are we starting your tour out here?”

“I’m taking you home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re too drunk to drive yourself.”

Her feet stopped, but her upper body kept moving forward. Urban still had her arm and pushed her back to standing.

“I’m not drunk,” she told him, sounding to her own ears as sober as a judge. “You can’t get drunk off champagne. It’s mostly bubbles and magic. Plus, I’ve only been sipping it. Nobody gets drunk from sipping.”

“You somehow pulled it off.”

She blinked, her eyes staying shut for a few seconds before she remembered to open them again. “I did?” He nodded. “I can’t drive. It wouldn’t be safe.”

He just started walking again, and since he still had her arm, she had no choice but to go with him.

Out on the porch, she spun loose from him, turned and stepped back inside. “I have to get my shoes.”

He caught up with her, this time putting his arm around her waist and steering her back around again. “I’ll get them after you’re settled in the truck.”

“And my bag?”

“And your bag.”

“And my leftover cake?”

“And your leftover cake,” he agreed.

She burst into tears. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me!” she wailed, pressing her face against his chest, both hands clutching his shirt.

Another sigh, this one long and deep. He wrapped his other arm around her so that he was holding her, one hand rubbing soothing circles up her upper back.

“Tough day?” he asked, so soft and sympathetic and sweet, she cried harder.

“I’m a piranha!”

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