emotions wouldn’t be very fun to deal with sober. Or alone. Not yet.
Aiden contemplated her for a minute, then looked behind him before pulling out a pink pastry box that Brooke recognized from Callie’s Confections, the bakery down the street. “Here’s the deal, I’ll give you one more if you eat a piece of this pie to soak some of it up.”
Brooke eagerly pulled the pink box in front of her and lifted the lid. She groaned as the scent of sugary pecans and buttery crust met her nose. She never had gotten to that Kit Kat and she was starving. Half of the thick gooey pie was left. She rose up and leaned over the bar to grab a fork from a metal crock. “Okay, another beer please.”
Aiden laughed and shook his head as she dug into the pie. “Yes, ma’am.
Forty-five minutes later and Brooke had downed the third beer, two shots of Jӓgermeister courtesy of the bar fixture next to her who was apparently avoiding his in-laws, and nearly all the pie. She stood up to use the restroom and almost tripped as she stepped away from the bar.
Standing up and walking was a sure way to quickly realize how intoxicated you were. The room tilted as she made her way to the back of the bar and down the dark, wood-paneled hallway to the restroom. To be honest, Brooke was surprised she’d managed to complete her mission without falling down. Grabbing the lip of the sink, she glanced into the mirror and sighed. “Shit.”
Her knitted scarf was hanging haphazardly around her neck, her cheeks were flushed from the warm bar and the alcohol, and her hair. Brooke sighed again. Her hair looked like she’d lost the battle with a comb, or a wind machine. She was officially a hot mess, and she hated that phrase. After washing her hands, fluffing her hair, and picking a glob of pecan pie off her sweater, she took a deep breath as she tried to pull her foggy mind into focus and steady herself. She walked out of the restroom and into the bar, which she realized had gotten a lot more crowded in the past couple of hours.
Smokey’s was the epitome of a small-town American bar—scuffed floors, neon beer signs, and local memorabilia decorating the walls—and the cliental preferred it that way. She made her way through the tables and bodies only to find Ryan, looking all broody and coppish, standing by her empty bar stool talking to Aiden.
“Aiden, I hadn’t taken you for a traitor,” she said in a whiny voice that even
her
drunken brain was offended by.
He had the decency to look guilty. “Sorry, Sweet Thing. I have no problem lettin’ you drown in your sorrows for a spell, but I can’t let you walk into the night like that. I’m too good a guy.”
He was, damn it. With a huff, she dug into her purse to pull out her wallet.
“I already took care of it,” Ryan said, his voice stern. “Let’s go.”
Brooke looked up and spotted a twenty on the bar. She grabbed it and shoved it into his chest.
“No you don’t. I’m not some drunk college kid, and I’m not your responsibility, Ryan.” She felt embarrassed by her childish behavior, but while she could barely think straight, she was coherent enough to know that she didn’t want him paying for her drinks, as tempting as it was. She got enough crap from her parents about her financial situation; she didn’t need any more pity from Ryan, too. It was bad enough that Aiden called him to take her drunk ass home. The humiliation of this evening was nearing epic proportions.
She slammed her debit card down on the counter and waited while Aiden reluctantly ran it through the machine. “You didn’t need to come here, Ryan. I know you think I need your constant hovering, but I can take care of myself.” She clumsily threw on her big winter coat and fumbled with the buttons. “I don’t need anyone paying my way or protecting me or standing me up right now!” She gave up trying to make the buttons fit through the holes and turned to glare at Ryan.
“Brooke, stop.” Ryan had the