Page 83 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

"Very." I signal the waiter I hired to bring water. "Though I'm starting to think we should get you home."

"Why?" She leans forward conspiratorially, nearly knocking over her glass. "Afraid I'll spill more secrets than wine?"

"Do you have secrets to spill?"

She straightens too quickly, swaying slightly. "Everyone has secrets. Even AI-loving tech CEOs who apparently remember every word I've ever said about love."

"Roz—"

"Like how you remembered the chess players!" She waves toward their table, nearly taking out a candle. "And the surgeon and the pianist, and... and..." She blinks. "Why is the room spinning?"

"Because you just drank most of a bottle of very good Italian wine." I stand, moving around to her side of the table. "Come on. Time to go."

"But I haven't told you—" She stops, pressing her lips together like she's physically holding back words.

"Told me what?"

"Nothing. Everything. You look really good in this lighting." She attempts to stand and immediately tilts sideways. "Oops."

I catch her against my chest, steadying her with an arm around her waist. "Need I remind you what happened last time you had too much wine around me?"

"I ruined your shirt." She pats my current shirt clumsily. "This one's safe though. No wine in hand."

"Yet you're still managing to knock my ordered world into disarray.”

"You like it," she mumbles into my shoulder. "You said so. With the tables and the memories and the not using CORA..."

"I did say that." I guide her toward the door, nodding thanks to the waiter who's already calling a car. "Though I'm curious what has you drinking like a startup founder after their first round of funding falls through."

"Big words," she mutters. "Too many words. Why do you use so many words?"

The snow swirls around us as we exit Meet Cute, the city muffled in white. Rosalind leans heavily against me, her heels leaving uneven tracks in the fresh snow.

"I told you I'm fine," she insists as I help her into the car, though her words slur just enough to make it clear she's not.

"Sure," I say, sliding in beside her. "You're the picture of sobriety. I'm shocked the Olympics hasn't called you for a balance beam routine."

"That's gymnastics," she corrects, but the sharp edge she usually reserves for me is blunted by the wine.

As we drive through Seattle's snow-quiet streets, she lets her head fall against my shoulder. The scent of her perfume—that additive vanilla scent—blends with the clean, crisp air from outside.

"This is a terrible idea," I tell her, though I'm not sure if I mean taking her to my place or this whole thing between us.

"You're not wrong," she mumbles.

By the time we reach my building, she's barely upright. I guide her inside and straight to my bedroom, ignoring CORA's helpful suggestions about best guest accommodation protocols.

She makes a vague attempt to wave me off but ends up collapsing onto the bed, her hair fanning out like spilled burnt-reddish ink across my pillows. Something about the sight of her there, all soft fabric and messy curls against my precise décor, makes my stomach tighten.

"You okay?" I ask, pulling the duvet over her.

"M'fine," she mutters before rolling onto her side and falling asleep almost instantly.

I stand there for a moment, watching her chest rise and fall in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Her face has relaxed in sleep, but something about our evening nags at me – the way she kept almost saying something important, how she drank to avoid whatever conversation she was afraid to have.

Tomorrow is going to be a mess.

I wake to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the faint sound of water running in the ensuite bathroom. For a moment, I'm disoriented, the previous night's events blurring together like a half-loaded page. Then I hear the unmistakable sound of Roz humming—off-key, of course—and everything snaps into focus.

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