I make it halfway across the room, when Waylon moves abruptly, putting himself in front of me, halting my steps.

“—go,” I finish, blinking at eyes that seem so much richer in this lighting. Warmer.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You look like shit. Can’t say I miss that.”

I roll my eyes. “Har-har.”

A dimple pops out.

“You left a note,” I blurt.

“I did.”

I clear my throat and look away. Why is looking at him so hard today? “Thank you.”

“You said that already.”

“Yeah, well, I figure I owe you quite a few of those.” I suck in my cheek and stare down at my feet. “You could have just left me in there, you know. In the bathroom. I would have been fine on my own. You didn’t have to...” I wave the hand with the book. “Take care of me.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, then, “You’d have done the same—you have done the same. We’re friends, right? That’s what friends do.”

I search his face. “Yeah. Friends.”

His throat bobs, but he’s quick to shake off whatever reaction those words triggered as he looks away. He runs his fingers through his sweat-damp hair. “Plus, I figured I’d save you the posthumous embarrassment by making sure you didn’t drown in a pool of your own vomit. Blue vomit, might I add,” he says dryly.

I wince. “Yeah, not my finest hour.”

He chuckles, and the deep, raspy sound of it goes right to my groin. Fuck, shit, fuck. No way will this towel hide anything should my arousal reveal itself. Down, boy, I think desperately. Not the fucking time.

A knowing glint alights his hazel eyes, making me wonder if he knows exactly what’s going through my head right now.

“Pro tip?” he says gently. “Don’t ever drink one of Ivy’s specials.”

My nose wrinkles. “Yeah, I think I got that.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like I’ve just gone round for round with André the fucking Giant.”

There’s that chuckle again.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungover in my life,” I tell him.

“Don’t tell my cousin that. She’s got enough of an ego as it is.”

“Funny, pretty sure she once said the same thing about you.”

A teasing grin lifts his face, sinking in his cheeks. “Oh? And what were you talking about?”

I blink, not quite sure that shit I drank last night didn’t melt my brain completely. Because if I didn’t know better, I’d almost think Waylon’s flirting with me. But I do know better.

I do, right?

I force a casual shrug. “Just that you’re good—the band, I mean. You guys are...good.” I cringe.

Smooth.

His smile widens.