“Okay,” he says, his hands returning to my waist. “You want to get out of here? Maybe get a cup of coffee somewhere? That punch is no joke.”
I shake my head and immediately regret it. The stars spin harder, and Trent suddenly sprouts a third eye in the center of his forehead.
“Oh, no,” I mumble as my stomach churns more violently. “No, no, no.”
Suddenly, a familiar voice pipes up from behind Trent’s massive back. “Get away from her.”
Even before Trent turns—revealing the angry blue eyes and delicious black curls of the man behind him—I recognize the speaker.
It’s Mick Whitehouse. Again.
The man’s like a bad rash.
I try to tell Mick to stay out of my business, but the words come out all jumbled and wrong. My tongue is too thick and my stomach too sour, and the damn world won’t stop spinning.
“Back off, man,” Trent says, glaring at Mick. “Everything’s fine. No one’s in danger here. I’m not that kind of guy, so no need to play hero.”
“I heard her say no,” Mick says, not backing down. “Before I go anywhere, I’m making sure she’s okay.” He shifts his attention my way. “Are you all right?”
I suck in an unsteady breath. Even with the world spinning, having Mick this close makes some primal part of me send up a cheer of approval. There’s something about his eyes, about the way he looks at me like he wants to devour me and protect me at the same time, that’s completely captivating.
And completely frustrating.
I lift a finger, closing one eye to make sure I’m aiming it at only one of Mick. “I do not need protectorin, pertecter, pro-tectoring—” I clear my throat and will my dumb lips to cooperate. “I do not need you to protect me, Mick Whitehouse.”
He nods. “I know. You’re tough, but you also sound…pretty drunk.”
“I am snot.” I snort-laugh as I realize what I’ve said, then pull myself together again. “I meant I am not. Thas what I meant.” I hiccup unexpectedly and then cover my mouth and mumble, “’Scuse me.”
“You’re excused,” Mick says with a serious nod before turning to Trent and adding in a softer voice. “Sorry about the misunderstanding. But she’s obviously wasted. I need to take her home. Why don’t you give her your number? If she’s interested, she can call you when she’s sober.”
“Why don’t I take her home,” Trent says, sliding an arm around my waist and drawing me closer, making my stomach snarl angrily as our torsos connect. “I don’t know you from a hole in the ground, man, and Faith doesn’t seem very happy to see you. I think she’s better off with me.”
“And I think you’d better let her go.” Mick steps closer, glaring up at the slightly taller Trent, a menacing expression on his face. “Because there’s no way in hell I’m letting her leave here with you when she’s so drunk she can barely stand.”
“Now juss wait a second…” I gulp and press my lips together, fighting a wave of nausea.
I want to pull away from Trent.
I want to tell both of these bossy boys to leave me alone and that the only person taking me home will be Kitty.
But I’m too dizzy and my stomach is a volcano full of lava.
A volcano that I realize—too late—is about to erupt.
Seconds later, I bend over and am spectacularly sick all over Trent’s shiny, black shoes.
Chapter Four
Faith
When I wake up the next morning, I remember four things from the end of the night before:
Mick Whitehouse holding back my hair as I vomited into a mostly clean, but still gross, toilet.
Mick Whitehouse brushing my teeth.
Mick Whitehouse assuring me that Trent’s shiny, black shoes needed to be thrown out anyway and that’s what Trent deserved for wearing nice shoes to a New Year’s Eve party with people ten years his junior.
Mick Whitehouse tucking me into a futon at Melody’s and smoothing my hair from my clammy forehead in a way that was surprisingly soothing, making me feel safer and more relaxed than my mother’s lullabies ever did.
When I open my eyes on the first day of the New Year to find Mick asleep in a recliner in the corner of the room, his sock feet sticking out beneath a fleece blanket, I don’t know quite how to feel about it.
On the one hand, he was an amazing friend to me last night, and I know the only reason I don’t currently feel like a hungover corpse wrenched from its grave is because he forced me to drink a glass of water and take two aspirin before I passed out.
On the other hand…
Well—there is no other hand.
Mick was amazing last night. End of story.
The realization makes me feel off-balance, and unsure how to respond when he opens his eyes and greets me with a sleepy smile.
“Mornin’,” he says, his voice rough. “How are you feeling?”
“Pretty good, actually.” I run a nervous hand through my hair as I push into a seated position against the pillows. “Thanks to you.”
“No thanks necessary,” he says, stretching his arms over his head with a groan that’s weirdly sexy. Ugh. Clearly even being hungover isn’t an antidote to the Mick Effect.
“We’ve all been there,” he adds.
“I haven’t,” I say, picking at the pieces of yarn sticking up from the quilt that covers my legs. “I usually know my limits. I don’t know what happened. I’ve never gotten drunk so fast like that. I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. That punch was killer,” he says. “Four other people threw up. By the end of the night, we were calling it the Most Barf-tastic New Year’s Eve ever.”
“Oh God, let’s not talk about it.” I cover my face with both hands. “It’s too soon.”
He laughs. “I get it. But it was still a great party. Everyone had fun, and by tomorrow no one will remember who puked and who didn’t.”
“I’ll remember.” I drop my hands to my lap. “I feel so stupid. This is the first time I’ve seen Melody in years. I must have made a horrible impression and…” I sigh and stare at the wall above the door, finding it hard to meet Mick’s gaze. “And I could have done without you seeing me like that, too.”
“Kissing a douche canoe?” he asks, his voice a little cooler than before.
“I meant the puking and pathetic part,” I say, still avoiding eye contact.
“Well, if you were into the douche canoe, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t end up getting his number for you. After you vomited on his shoes and I convinced him I was an old friend who had your best interests at heart, he headed for the door pretty quick. But yeah…he actually seemed fine, I guess. If you like tall, tattooed, actually-nicer-than-I-thought kind of guys.”
My lips curve and I force myself to look back at Mick.
Am I crazy or does he sound jealous?
Just in case, I decide to put his mind at ease, “It’s fine there’s no number. I wasn’t into him.”