Excerpt from Intoxicated, copyright 2011 by Meg Harris.
“Let’s get drunk.”
Rylan Taylor laughed as Deanna Evans tossed back her second rum and Coke and blinked owlishly at him. They were sitting together on the Berber carpet of his living room, their backs against the couch, the room lit only by a single reading lamp. “It looks like you're getting drunk enough for both of us,” he answered.
“A girl only gess...” She poured herself another drink and tried again. “Gets one thirtieth birthday.”
“I agree. So exactly why are we sitting in the dark, instead of out having a big party?”
She glared at the drink as if it had personally insulted her. “Don' want a big party. I figured I'd rather hang out with you.”
“Is this all about Jon?”
Deanna had broken up with her long-time boyfriend, Jon Osborn, about a month ago. Rylan was pretty sure it had hit her hard, but Deanna stiffened and drew herself up, looking offended. “Course not.”
“Come on, Dee,” he said gently, taking the drink out of her hand and holding it out of her reach. Two and a half rum and cokes in the course of an hour was enough to knock a little thing like Deanna on her ass. Thirtieth birthday or not, he didn't want her to wind up with an enormous hangover tomorrow. “Talk to me. What's bothering you?”
“I just wan'... want to have fun tonight. It's my birthday.”
“Well, then, let's go out on the town and do something. Sitting around in the dark and moping is no way to have fun.”
“I don't wanna go out.” She stuck her lower lip out, reminding him of a pouting child. She was so cute he couldn't restrain a smile. “I'm practically middle-aged now, and I just wanna get smashed.”
He sighed. Once set on a course, Deanna was very difficult to divert. It would be easier to turn a hurricane. “Well, I can't get smashed, Dee. It’s just not a good idea for both of us to get drunk at once, okay? So I'd really rather go do something.”
The truth was that sitting this close to Deanna, sitting alone with her in a darkened room, made him a trifle nervous. They'd been close friends for the past five years, ever since she’d joined the staff of the magazine they both wrote for, but he'd always had a bit of a thing for her. She'd had a boyfriend for most of the past two years, and after some initial jealousy, he'd reminded himself that the two of them were just too different, and that he was better off just being her friend.
But now she and Jon were no longer an item, and he'd spent much of the past month thinking about her.
Logically, he knew the two of them weren’t right for each other. Never had been, never would be. She took life easy, saw everything as a joke, and was never at a loss for a sarcastic quip, whereas he was serious, focused, and driven. And they were co-workers, besides. Anyway, he really didn't want her to use him as a rebound boy, so he figured keeping his hands off her was the smart thing to do.
Even so, he was finding it damn difficult tonight. She wore tight jeans that clung to her ass like a second skin, along with a skimpy scarlet top that rode up, exposing a thin slice of her flat abdomen. The skin there looked so soft and satiny that he had to fight his hands to keep from touching her. Her golden hair rippled halfway down her back, so soft and touchable that he could hardly keep his hands away from it. She smelled like vanilla and brown sugar, and the fact that she was mere inches away was really starting to get to him.
Apparently unaware of his inner turmoil, she put her head on one side and considered him thoughtfully. “Why don’t you wanna get drunk?”
“Someone’s got to drive you home, Dee. You can’t drive in this condition.”
She looked down at the beige carpet for a long moment, then looked back up, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “What if I don’t wanna go home?”
He stared at her, startled. She gazed back, her crystal-blue eyes clear and unblinking. “Um,” he said at last. “You’re not really capable of making that kind of decision right now, Dee.”
“Sure I am. I’m not that far gone.” She grinned the happy, carefree smile that he’d grown to know so well over the past five years. “You said we should do something. I think you’re right. Let’s… do something.”
“Dee.” He tried very hard to look disapproving, rather than wildly in favor of the idea. “If you were sober… but I can’t take advantage of you, okay? That’s just not right.”
“You’re not taking advantage of me.” She got up, somewhat unsteadily, retrieved a glass from the kitchen, and plopped back down next to him. She started to pour rum into it. “Why don’t we get drunk together?”
For some reason her words reminded him of the title of an old song: Why don’t we get drunk and screw? He looked at her flushed cheeks, her overly bright eyes, and shook his head. “Bad idea, Dee. Very bad idea. I don't think we both need to get drunk at the same time.”
She flashed that grin again. “Afraid you won't be able to keep your hands off me, huh?”
Exactly. “Of course not,” he lied. “But if we got… well, I don’t want to do something we’ll both regret.”
“I won’t regret it,” she said, and the absolute confidence in her voice made his throat tighten. But he really didn’t know if she wanted him, or if it was just the alcohol talking.
“You might, Deanna. We’ve been friends a long time. I don’t want you to hate me in the morning.”
“Oh, Rylan.” She rolled her eyes. “You're such a stick in the mud.”
“I am not.” Okay, he definitely was. But Dee was his friend, and he was supposed to protect her, not take advantage of her in a moment of weakness. She might wind up loathing him, and that was the last thing he wanted.
She sloshed Coke into the glass, over the rum she’d already poured, and picked it up. He stared at it. He knew the smart thing to do would be to get away from her. He was sober and she wasn’t, and there was no way she could get near him if he didn't want her to.
But for whatever reason, he couldn't move. He sat there, frozen, and she smiled brightly, offering him the glass.
He reached out, picking up the glass and wrapping his fingers around it, taking the temptation she offered.
