“Dammit!” I curse out loud. Damn my subconscious. She’s always getting me into trouble. Making me do stupid, unimaginable things, like lacing an entire cake with laxative.

The memory of the feel of Harley’s lips on mine comes flooding back to me, and I stifle the shiver threatening to run through me as I trace my lips with my fingers. I glance up at the house, to the big window on the right. Our room. And a million conflicting thoughts begin racing through me. He’s probably naked up there. Is he in the armchair? Maybe he’s in the bed. I wonder if he’s thinking of me. Is he up there waiting for me? My heart is racing so fast I can feel the thrum of my heartbeat bang heavily against my eardrums. What’s going to happen when I go up there to bed? What will he do? Will he pretend as if I don’t exist? Will he offer one of his smug smirks, knowing I was going to eventually give in and go to him?

Suddenly, my skin pricks and I feel my cheeks flush as I imagine him lying in the bed, dressed only in his boxers, his hand dipping beneath the waistband … But at that thought I blink hard, shaking my head, realizing just how dry my mouth is when I try to swallow the ball of nerves pulsating in the back of my throat. God, I need to calm the hell down, or grow a set of proverbial balls and go the hell up there. Last night I was ready to jump his bones. Tonight, suddenly I’m too chickenshit. I’m just as drunk as I was last night. Maybe even more. So, what the hell has gotten into me?

I walk a little unsteadily back into the house, stopping in the kitchen, and I move to the island, gripping the marble counter with my hands. As I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm my racing heart, I notice my knuckles turning a stark shade of white. That’s when I catch sight of the bottle of tequila, and I consider it for the briefest of moments.

“Sleep on the couch,” I hiss under my breath, closing my eyes tight. “Or else you’re gonna make a damn fool of yourself! Again!”

Opening my eyes, my hand moves of its own accord, grabbing the tequila. And as I take a swig straight from the bottle, it’s like I’m an outsider looking in, and I have no control over my actions. At least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

With the bottle in one hand, I smooth my hair back from my face with the other, taking a deep breath as I turn and head toward the stairs. Climbing each step one at a time, I stop halfway to take another swig from my comfort tequila. I don’t even wince at the burn as it trails down the back of my throat, and I’m worried I might be too far gone, further than I had originally anticipated. I pause at the landing, and in an unexpected moment of clarity, I look left to my bedroom door. A voice deep down at the back of my consciousness pleads for me to go back downstairs to the living room and sleep it off on the couch as far away from Harley as I can possibly get. But that voice is fleeting, fading into the background noise of my racing heart and heavy breaths.