Rm w/a Vu(52)

Turning to face him a little too quickly, I topple over. Before I can hit the ground, though, Greyston is there to catch me. His arms are around my waist, and my shirt has risen up a couple of inches. I can feel the bare skin of his forearms against my flesh, and I exhale shakily.

“You’re drunk,” he points out.

I nod. “You’re like a detective,” I tease, poking his chest—his hard, muscley chest. As though my hand has a mind of its own, it flattens against his chest, but before I can get too out of control with my drunken groping, Greyston helps me upright, pulling my shirt back into place for me.

Killjoy.

I take in his appearance, noticing that he’s dressed in a white cotton tee and a pair of grey plaid pajama pants, and he looks absolutely delicious. He clears his throat, and when I look up at him, I think I barely catch a glimpse of him checking me out, too. Weird.

“Why don’t you go change, and I’ll make you some coffee,” he offers, turning me toward the stairs. “You need to sober up a little, or you’ll be in a world of pain tomorrow.”

For some reason, my brain turns this into something dirty, and I envision whips and chains and stuff—like I thought his fun-room upstairs held.

I stumble on the first step because I am imagining being tied up, and also because I’ve got no control over my legs. Sitting on the stairs, I bend over to remove my shoes—because I’m certain they’re also culprits—but soon give up because it just seems like a lot of work.

Ever my knight-in-shining-armor, Greyston kneels before me and gently grabs my ankle, removing my right shoe and then my left. That familiar spark pulses beneath my skin and up my legs, coming to a full stop between my thighs. I wish his hands would follow that trail.

The minute I think it, his hand moves up from my ankle until it’s caressing my calf muscle. I’m certain it’s only been a few seconds—if that—but it feels like he’s been holding onto my leg for much, much longer. Biting my lip, I stare at him, trying to figure out the look in his eyes. Before I can analyze further, he glances away and sets my foot back on the stair.

“Go change. I’ll make coffee.”

He leaves me alone and confused. As if it isn’t bad enough that my mind is working over-time to wade through the alcohol, now I have to try and figure out why he’s acting so funny?

“Ugh,” I grumble, rolling over and pushing myself to my feet so I can climb the stairs. “Men suck.”

Opening my bedroom door, I walk into my room and shed my clothes, dropping them to the floor as I walk to my dresser. I pull out a pair of sleep shorts, a thin tank top, and a pink button-up flannel pajama top that is covered in bright red cherries. I pull them on, leaving it unbuttoned, and giggle because the color of it reminds me of Greyston’s ruined laundry.

Once I’m dressed, I brush my teeth, because the taste of beer has begun to make me feel nauseous. It’s possible I’m way more drunk than I’ve ever been. With minty-fresh breath, I head downstairs with the intention of going to the kitchen, but Greyston has just appeared with two cups of fresh coffee and leads me to the living room.

Before he gives me my coffee, he asks me to take a seat. “Here you go. Be careful; it’s hot.”

I take the mug from him, blow on it before taking a sip, and then set it on the coffee table. “Thanks.”

Greyston nods, smirking over the rim of his own cup as he takes a drink. “So, Erik seems really nice,” he says, and I have this weird feeling that I’ve heard that before… Oh right, I said it before leaving with the creep.

Playfully, I lean over and shove his shoulder. “Shut up. I was wrong, okay? You happy now?”

His smile disappears, and he sets his cup next to mine before turning to me. “No. Not happy. Do you have any idea how much I wanted to punch that guy?”

“There you go again,” I tease. “Always with the punching.”

Greyston laughs, making me feel better because I don’t like when he’s so tense. “Yes, I suppose I do need to work on my impulses.”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I kind of wanted to punch him too. A couple of times, actually.” We’re both silent for a while, leaving me alone with far too many thoughts in my current state. I think back to my high school boyfriend, to Ben, and now to Erik. How is it I attract these guys? Am I emitting some kind of loser pheromone?

“I don’t get it,” I finally say, breaking the silence. “What’s wrong with me?”

Greyston’s eyes widen incredulously. “Excuse me?” I don’t elaborate further, because it seems like a pretty straightforward question. “Juliette, there’s nothing wrong with you.”