Page 39 of Better Hate than Never

Of course, that’s when I remember her boyfriend’s a pediatrician. “I mean, besides—”

“Chill your cheeky briefs,” she says, pushing off the couch, mug in hand. “I’m not offended.”

I peer down, and lo and behold, I am indeed in my cheeky briefs. “I coulda sworn I put on pants.”

Her hand lands gently on my messy bun, which she tweaks affectionately. “I think you might still be a little drunk.”

“It’s possible.” Cautiously, I try for another sip of coffee. “I inherited Mom’s knack for languages but not her tolerance for whiskey.”

“Only Jules inherited Mom’s tolerance for whiskey, which is freakish and unfair.” Bea tops off her mug and leans against the counter beside me. “So. How much do you remember after you passed out in the closet?”

Oh boy. Here we go. “Nothing. Why? Did I reveal myself from my hiding spot in some gloating and spectacularly inebriated fashion?”

A little nervous laugh trickles out of her. She takes a gulp of coffee. Then another. “Not exactly.”

Unease slithers down my spine. “What happened?”

“It’s not a big deal.” Bea sets her mug in the sink, the dregs swirling around the bottom.

“That’s exactly what you say when somethingisa big deal.”

“Christopherfoundyouandputyoutobedthat’sit.”

I blink at her. “I... He... What?”

She walks backward, which is not a wise idea for Bea—she’s the only one in the family more accident-prone than me. “Christopher. He found you. Put you to bed.” She dusts off her hands. “No big. That’s it.”

Hazy, liquor-soaked memories saturate my brain and float to the surface. I remember now, my head flopping onto a shoulder, my cheek pressing into a solid chest that radiated heat, hard and warm as a sunbaked boulder.

I remember breathing in that familiar scent, spicy woodsmoke, soft as a whisper on his clothes and skin.

Oh God. His skin. I buried my face in it. I wrapped my arm around him. Itouchedhim.

“Are you okay?” Bea asks.

I scrub my face. “Brilliant. Fabulous.”

“You’re upset.”

“Christopher carried my drunk ass to bed like a damsel in distress after he found me spooning a whiskey bottle in a closet,yes, I’m upset!”

“To be fair, Jamie said they did try to wake you up. The damsel-in-distress bit was a last resort.”

“Argh. I’m...” I press the heels of my hands against my shut eyes, savoring the temporary relief from the pain thudding behind them. “I’m just upset with myself”—and Christopher, because he’s very easy to be upset with. “I don’t like looking back at a situation and seeing what a mess I was.”

“I mean, consider it this way,” Bea says encouragingly. “This happened in the safety of your home, with someone who’s practically family, who would never do anything untoward. Christopher just tucked you in and left, and that was that.”

I hate it, the intimacy of that image—Christopher seeing my things strewn about the room, laying me in my bed. God knows what I looked like, what I said to him, my limbs and lips loosened with sleep and whiskey. How humiliating.

Trying to cover my discomfort, I throw back my coffee in hot, painful gulps. “Yes, thankfully that happened with someone who has no interest in taking advantage of me, not that I needed you to remind me.”

Bea rolls her eyes. “I meant he believes in consent and consciousness.”

“Yeah.” I set my mug on the counter with athunk. “Well, I’mgonna puke if we talk any more about Christopher carrying me around, seeing me at my worst. Let’s move on.”

“Fine.” Bea lifts her hands wearily. “We gotta get ready for work anyway.”

My legs buckle. I slump against the counter. “Oh God.”

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