My head is swimming, and my stomach is writhing, both from the alcohol and the prickly, cold realization of what I've done. Calling my new boss drunk from a toilet is almost as inappropriate as giving a woman a non-first edition copy of Tess of the D'Urbervilles. If I don't get some fresh air immediately, I may not make it outside in time for Crispin to rescue me from whatever poor decision I'm about to make.

I wrap up my business in the toilet stall, give my near-perfect lipstick a touchup, and hustle through the restaurant without acknowledging my companions who would only cause further delay by peppering me with questions about why I'm going outside late at night alone in my sexy dress with such beautifully applied lipstick.

Pushing through the door, I plunge into the frigid, salt-licked fog. The wind whips past, ruffling my skimpy dress and blowing my hair into a wild, uncontrolled mass. Nearby, a helicopter hovers over a patch of lawn with a rumbling thwop of blades slapping the air.

Holy crap! Wearing my sexy dress right now is the equivalent of donning a bikini for an arctic swim. It looks great, but it's fucking ridiculous. The nausea kicks into high gear, and now I'm also shivering.

Why did I drink so much? Oh, right, because I was celebrating academic freedom; I love the taste and the buzz. Plus, I was being a good friend by drinking Jacob's margarita.

I am essentially a saint.

I hustle away from the Last Chance, teetering on my heels, toward a huddle of palm trees, trying to locate the best spot to throw up. There it is! The perfect tree, far enough from the bar to look like I'm being thoughtful of others' sensibilities, but not so far that it's impossible to see my bravery in a moment of discomfort.

Something large and shirtless pops out from behind my designated palm. I scream, my heart pounding like I'm a rat in a snake pit. "What the hell?" I shout.

Jacob's face swirls across my vision. "Eeesh okay, Ani; esh me. Don't be afraid," he slurs.

I tug my fists against my narrow hips. "Where's your shirt, Jacob?"

"I know you like my mushles." He slaps his chest like a greater ape proving his virility. "When I shaw you about to leave, I came out and hid behind the besht tree. I took my shirt off ... for you," he manages to articulate. "You okay? You're fashe is green, and you're shivering. Do you need a hand? Or an arm. Or a hot chesh?"

"I need to throw up." This is ridiculous. Never get between a nauseous woman and her tree! I try to push past him, but he blocks my way.

"But you look sho beautiful in your shexy dress." He pulls me into his arms and holds me close. He is warm, but it's Jacob, who is like a hot younger stepbrother. You do not have sex with stepbrothers, even if it is biologically acceptable. Just yuk!

I try to push him away, but he's too strong. "Jacob, no! Down, Jacob."

Jacob does not obey.

"You know I've had a crush on you for yearsh." His face lowers toward mine, eyes closed, mouth in kissing formation. He smells like beer and margarita and despair. Is he really trying to kiss me? I manage to wriggle my hands between our chests and try to push him away, but it's like trying to topple a pregnant water buffalo.

Not that I'd recommend that. Believe me, I know from experience.

"Jacob, you're friendzoned. I we were clear about that."

"Please, Ani," he begs. His face is so close, I might throw up in his mouth. Wait, maybe I should throw up in his mouth. It could teach him a valuable lesson. I could be a hero and save others!

His stale beer breath is making this option inevitable. "Jacob, I said no," I give him one last chance before drawing on strength I didn't know I possessed (but definitely foreshadows that I would be a powerful supernatural creature if I were ever bitten by a radioactive spider or vampire or werewolf) and pushed Jacob hard. He stumbles backward and lands hard in a cloud of dirt. "Ani, Ani, Ani," he cries.

There's a crunching of boots on gravel and a mysterious figure mysteriously appears in a super mysterious manner through the fog. It's Crispin! His lip curls as he notices Jacob in the dirt. He growls at Jacob, who takes off without even bothering to locate his shirt. I guess Jacob possesses a modicum of self-preservation.

Crispin then turns his steely gaze on me. My heart stutters. Is that love in his eyes? Attraction? Hunger? A speck of dirt? "I powered up the helicopter to rescue," he growls.

"I thought your helicopter was broken," I remind him.

"Bought a new one so I could come get you. And it was for nothing."

"Not for nothing," I say, turning back toward the palm tree where I vomit impressively.

"Then for what?" Crispin growls.

"My hair," I say. "Could you hold it out of the way? I've always wanted a guy to do that."

He wraps one powerful arm around my shoulders and twists my hair into a ponytail with his other.

Honestly, with my stomach still churning, this isn't as romantic as you might think. I projectile vomit, narrowly missing his enormous shoes. After a few minutes, there's nothing left inside me, and I collapse against his firm chest, breathless and spent.

"Here," he says, handing me a wet wipe.

I frown, my hand pausing over the wipe. "No monogrammed freshly laundered linen handkerchief?" I ask. I don't complain further, but can you believe a billionaire who doesn't carry around a supply of starched white linen handkerchiefs for situations like this?

"Sorry, used up my last one a few days ago," he barks.

Jealousy stings my throat. What bitch got his last handkerchief, and can I find her and wrap it around her neck snugly? I clear my throat and take the moist cloth. "Thanks," I croak and wipe my face.

"Don't mention it."

I cannot bring myself to look into Crispin's eyes due to all the shame I feel throwing up in front of my boss/love interest. If I had a tail, it would be curled firmly between my legs. "I'm really sorry you flew out here for nothing."

He lifts my chin so I'm forced to gaze longingly into his amber eyes. "Why are you sorry, Anesthesia? I am impressed that you're such a badass." What does this mean? I am super confused. Who is the top in this relationship? Does he want a sub or a dom? Or does he just want a dog sitter? It's all so perplexing, and my head is throbbing so painfully from the alcohol that I can't think straight. He flashes me a wry smile. "Plus, it wasn't really a waste. I did hold your hair for you."

"True," I said, managing a small smile. "I'm also sorry I called you. That was inappropriate."

"As if I'm one to care about propriety."

Propriety.

Heat rises to my face, causing me to blush and flush as I recall the totally inappropriate dream I had with Crispin in the starring role. Thank goodness it wasn't real! I bite my lip.

"Stop that," he commands. And then, as if he can hear my thoughts, Crispin raises an eyebrow and whispers sexily into my ear, "why do you assume it wasn't real?"

***

Ooooh! What secrets will Crispin reveal? Will he appreciate her sexy dress? Will he order linen handkerchiefs from Neiman Marcus as soon as he gets home? Will Jacob ever be reunited with his shirt? Stay tuned! 

Don't forget all the comments and votes and stuff. Hugs!