“You’re so charming,” I tell him.

“And you smell like the bottom of a toilet.”

“And yet you’re leaving the bar with this toilet.”

“I’m a lucky man.”

“Liv!” We’re halfway out the door when I hear Bree. Asher turns us around.

“Where are you going?” she asks. “The guys are getting us a car to their place.”

“She can barely stand up, Bree,” Asher says. “She’s not going anywhere with them.”

“You’re her boss, not her boyfriend, Asher.”

“And you’re supposed to be her friend,” he says. “And the fact that you would put her in a situation like that when she’s not in the right state of mind just goes to show what a shitty friend you actually are.”

“Please,” she scoffs. “She was looking for someone to go home with.”

“She’s allowed to change her mind.” It’s Emanuel who’s holding the door open for us. “She lives on East 17th by Stuyvesant Square. There’s a purple car that’s always parked in front of her building.”

Asher mutters a thank you before he puts us into a car.

* * *

Turns out that it’s not easy getting up three flights of stairs when you’re half unconscious and drunk.

“You’re absolutely no help,” Asher curses under his breath.

“Sorry.”

“Where’s your key?”

“Dunno.”

“Olivia.”

“My bag, probably.”

He leans me against the wall and tears into my purse. He drops a pack of gum, an emergency tampon, and a hair clip before my keys jingle in his hands.

“Why do you have three locks?”

“Because not everyone has an around-the-clock security officer in their building.”

“He’s not very good,” Asher says. “Lets you in.”

“I bring him chocolates and coffee.”

“Do you get his right?”

“Of course I do,” I say. “You’re just nitpicky.”

He rolls his eyes and pushes me through the door.

My apartment is a mess. I would be more embarrassed if I could stand up straight. I might even try to hide the bras that are drying on my dish rack.

“Where’s your room?”

“Only door on the right,” I say.

We maneuver around the couch and the table that houses my mini Christmas tree. Asher almost trips over a pair of Joey’s shoes and then he stumbles into a floor lamp. He’s grunting and groaning as we fall into my room, which is pitch black until I somehow manage to turn on the fairy lights.

“Do you not have heat?”

“In most rooms,” I say. “Just not this one.”

“How is that not a code violation?”

“I’m illegally subletting this room,” I say. “I can’t complain.”

“Of course you can’t. You’re probably in hypothermic shock.”

“Do you care?” I ask.

“Not really,” he says. “Get into bed.”

“Not in this,” I say and I’m ripping off my shirt before he can stop me.

“Olivia.”