“What considerate co-workers.”
“With that kind of consideration, I think it very well might be a great school year.”
A throat clears above us just as I get comfortable, ready for a brief nappity-nap.
“I think there’s someone standing next to us,” I say, eyes closed.
“I think that was the ocean lapping against the rocks.”
“It’s a lake, you dumbass.” I laugh.
“That’s what I meant.” Stella giggles.
“It was neither,” a male voice says above us.
Uh-oh . . .
I open one eye and slowly look up to find Arlo standing over us, a displeased look on his face.
Whispering to Stella, I say, “It’s the guy who doesn’t like me.”
She jackknifes off the lounger and sits up, her hair sticking out on the right side. Scrambling to right herself, she says, “Turner, lovely party. Send my praise to the grill master. That brisket was phenomenal.”
“The party was over twenty minutes ago.”
I lift up as well and look behind us, noticing the empty backyard. “Huh, I guess it is.” Smiling, I lie back down. “That champagne was top notch.” I snuggle into the lounger. “Thanks for the invite . . . even though you don’t like me.” I pull on Stella, who sinks back into the lounger, as well. I snuggle to her back and shut my eyes.
“You can’t sleep here.”
“Why? Is this your bed?” I ask, eyes still closed. “We could make room for you.” I pat the small space behind my rear end. “See, right here. Take a seat.”
“Did you drive here?”
“Aren’t you chatty now?” I sigh and turn to look up at him. “No, I took an Uber. So no need to worry about my car taking up curb space. All good.” I wave my hand at him. “We’re good, really. You’re relieved of your hostess duties.”
“Host,” he says.
“Huh?” Stella’s face twists in confusion.
“Hostess is the female noun for someone presenting an event. Host would be proper in this context since I’m a man. I would expect you to know something as simple as that, Miss Gibson. But alas, you’ve made the mistake all night.”
“Who called the dictionary police?” Stella asks, thumbing toward Arlo.
Even more irritated, Arlo says in a deep, threatening voice, “Miss Gibson, Miss Garcia, you have ten seconds to get up and start vacating my property.”
“Ten seconds?” I ask. “Or what?”
“Or I tell Principal Dewitt how extremely unprofessional both of you are.”
“Pfft.” I jerk my thumb toward him while speaking to Stella. “Look at this guy. Mr. Tattletale.” Sitting up, I add, “Snitches get stitches, man.” I nudge Stella, but we don’t stand; instead, we both sit up on the lounger, trying to steady ourselves.
“One. Two.”
My blurry eyes connect with his. “Are you really counting?”
“Four. Five.”
“Stella, he’s counting at us.”
“Seven. Eight. Trust me, you don’t want me to get to ten.”
“Did you hear that—”
“Nine . . .”
“Okay, okay. We’re moving.” I grab Stella and stand, my legs wobbly, my brain too tired to even try to calculate the distance to make it out of this mansion. “Man alive, what kind of champagne was that?” I grip my head and stumble forward, landing right against Arlo’s torso. My hands planted against his thick chest, I quickly notice how muscular he is under his pristine white T-shirt and cardigan. “Good grief, Stella. This man has muscles.” I lift my finger to his jaw where I poke the carved bone. “His angles are spectacular.”
“Miss Gibson, I suggest you pull yourself together.”
“Ugh, enough of that ‘Miss Gibson’ crap. We’re not at school. It’s Greer.” I lift off him, but keep one hand on his chest to steady myself as Stella finally meets me at my side, a goofy grin on her face. “Now, if you don’t mind helping me lug my body to the front of your abode, it’d be most appreciated.”
His jaw tenses, his eyes unwavering as he studies us.
“I agree. A little assistance could really move this process along,” Stella says.
Not saying a word, he grabs us both by the upper arms and starts guiding us up the stairs to the patio.
Well, not guiding, more like escorting.
Ehh . . . dragging.
He’s dragging us across his lawn, our drunk legs stumbling to keep up.
“Whoa there, horsey.” My stomach rolls. “Lit-tle slower, buster. Uneasy alcohol belly over here.”
“Same.” Stella raises her hand and then asks, “At least I kept my underwear on this time. Progress, wouldn’t you say, Arlo?”
“Progress would be not getting drunk at a work function.”
“Then why serve alcohol if you don’t want people getting drunk?”
“Valid point,” I say as we work our way to the side gate. “Frankly, this is all his fault. What was he expecting us to do when serving such delicious bubbly?”
“For such a poised hostess, the follow-through on the thought process wasn’t there.” Stella hiccups and then laughs. “You’ll get the hang of this hosting thing one day, Arlo. Don’t give up.”
“Yeah, the whole thing was almost a home run. Two minor glitches,” I say. “No cap on the booze, detrimental for two uncontrollable lushes. And number two . . . uh . . . oh yeah, number two, not liking me.”
“Why is that?” Stella asks, stopping us as she digs her heels into the ground. “Why don’t you like her?”
Not showing an ounce of irritation, besides the clench in his jaw and the tone of his voice, he says, “Maybe because she gets wasted at a work event and I’m left dragging her across my lawn when all I want to do is go to bed.”
“I hardly consider this dragging,” I say, though it’s a lie. It’s dragging for sure. “And we were perfectly content sleeping in the lounger, so you’re the one making this harder on yourself.”
“She has a point, Arlo.”
Pulling us forward again, he doesn’t say a word as we move through the gate and out to his front yard. “I trust you can call yourselves an Uber.”
“Sure,” I say, reaching for my phone in my pocket. “Whoa, that screen is bright.” I look away. “Burned my retinas.”
“Spare yourself, you can come to my place. Although, the decent thing would be Arlo telling us we can spend the night in one of his guest rooms.” She lolls her head to the side and smiles up at Arlo.
“Set up the Uber,” he says without blinking.
“Sheesh, you’d think he’d be more accommodating given the size of his house.” Stella types away on her phone, and then says, “They’re five minutes away.”
“Good.” Stepping away, Arlo retreats toward his house.
“Sure, yeah, no goodbye or anything,” I call out. “See you on Monday . . . turd nugget.” I whisper that last part.
Stella cups her mouth and calls out, “She just called you a turd nugget.” The gate to the fence slams and I push Stella, who falls to the ground laughing.