Tossing the condom on the bed, I crawl up and kiss her forehead. She never asks any questions or tries to further the touching, but instead I nudge her up to my pillow, and we both climb under the blankets. I wrap my hands around her body and bring it to mine, hoping my guy calms down soon.

Lying awake with her body pressed against mine, I nuzzle my head in the crook of her neck. A calmness washes over me that I’ve never felt before and although it scares me, I selfishly don’t pull away because it’s too good of a damn feeling. Eventually, I hear her soft breathing and I follow suit, allowing the alcohol to do its thing.

“DEX!” SADIE SCREAMS while jiggling the doorknob. I bolt up and look down at my naked body. Dex begins to wrestle awake, and my only thought is getting the hell out of this room. Glancing back to his back, I scramble up and try to gather my clothes strewn around the room. With an armful of clothes, I take one last look at him sprawled out on the bed before sneaking out through the bathroom to my room.

Once the door clicks shut, I flip the metal piece so he can’t come in. Taking a deep breath, I attempt to trigger my brain to remember everything that happened last night. Only bits and pieces come to mind. Drinking … lots of laughter … touching … dancing … kissing. Shit … kissing. Then I look down at my practically naked body minus my bra. No underwear, crap, did I sleep with Dex last night? No, No, I’d know if I did¸ right?

“Jessa’s having the baby. She’s in labor,” she screams through the door, and then I hear Dex’s door creak open.

“Jeez, Sadie, I don’t think Mrs. F heard you,” he says with a groggy voice.

“You look like hell. Let’s go. Grant waited to call us until this morning, but it happened last night. He said she’s close.” Sadie’s footsteps start padding down the hall, and I hear them stop at the top of the stairs. “Should I wake Chrissy?”

“Nah, let her sleep,” Dex responds. “I’ll meet you over there.”

“Don’t be dilly dallying,” she instructs him, and he’s quiet for a second.

“Your word usage needs improving. It’s not as though the baby is going anywhere.” The door clinks shut.

I tiptoe over to the bed in order to be as quiet as possible. Sitting up against the headboard, I bring my knees to my chest, and I swear I’m breathing louder than normal.

Hearing the water on the other side of the bathroom door, the image of Dex’s bare chest comes into view. I’m right back in that moment when my fingers traced his muscles last night and the look of pleasure that filled his eyes. The water shuts off, and I hear his every act of getting ready; the towel being hung on the rack, the drawer opening to grab toothpaste, and his electric toothbrush on for the two minutes to brush his teeth. When all movement stops and it’s silent, I’m positive he’s standing there debating in his head to come in or knock. Seconds later, my eyes close when I hear his bathroom door shut and lock behind him.

Impatiently waiting, I scoot down and hold my breath to hear him leave. Five minutes go by and then his heavy steps appear and make their way down the hall. Stopping briefly outside my own door, my heart speeds anticipating his knock. What will we say to each other? Act like it never happened? Pretend it was a blackout drunken night? When no knock happens and his footsteps continue to the staircase, relief and sadness mix within me. Confirmation that he wants nothing more from me. I guess one positive is he considers me too good of a friend than to gain sexual benefits from it, but it crushes my heart a little bit.

Once I hear the front door click shut and the lock slide over, I rise out of bed and go into the bathroom. I allow the cascade of water to cleanse me of the alcohol and the scent of Dex. I wish it could wash the visions of last night down the drain as well. Even after I’m finished getting ready, I’m positive I can smell his cologne on my skin.

Happy not to have Rob around the house—I can only imagine he stayed in someone else’s bed last night—I trek to the gallery. My stomach is a ball of nerves, since Jessa was supposed to train me again today. Yesterday wasn’t nearly enough for me do the job I need to in order for Ryland to believe in my capabilities.

The door chime rings when I enter, and Ryland has his keys in his hand, determined steps to the front door. He stops in his tracks when I enter, and he stares at me briefly and then closes the gap. “I assume you heard?” he asks me.

“I did, but even though she hasn’t had the time, I swear—” I begin to beg for this job.

“Relax, Chrissy, we’ll have to get through this together.” He chuckles. “I was just going to go over, but maybe since you’re here, I’ll wait and we can go together after work,” he offers, and my heartbeat slows back to normal.

“Sure, that sounds good.” I take a swallow because I’m not sure a man is supposed to look this good. A pair of charcoal slacks and white polo shirt tucked in showing off strong tanned forearms. He’s the GQ magazine poster boy for how to pull off the pro golfer look. His hair gelled as though he took the time to mold each strand in just the right place. While my eyes travel his body, I purse my lips together to keep from laughing at his soccer slide sandals.

Following my vision, he chuckles. “Just came from golfing. Had to take off my spikes.” He talks to me like I have an idea about golf and its attire.

“Oh … how did you do?” I ask, hoping he tells me in layman’s terms.

“Eight handicap,” he says, and, since I have no idea what it means, I smile and make my way to the desk.

“You have no idea what that means, do you?” he laughingly questions.

“Sorry … not much of a golfer,” I tell him, and he laughs more.

“So, it means I shot eight over par. Par is the average for the course—” he continues, but I raise my hand.

“Just tell me, is that a good score?” I interrupt him, because I’ll still have no idea once he finishes.

“Yeah, I like to think I’m a pretty good player.” He shrugs his shoulders, meeting me over by the desk.

Raising my eyebrow, he smiles and runs his fingers through his hair. “Golf player,” he clarifies, emphasizing golf.

“Of course,” I smirk and he shakes his head in amusement.

“Awe … Christine Dawson … I’m not sure about you,” he remarks with his back to me, finding his way to his office.

I file what Jessa showed me yesterday, listen to the messages, forwarding some to Ryland and noting which ones need calls back. Firing up the computer, I begin entering the data from the show last week, just like Jessa had already begun doing. When the phone rings, I freeze, scared to what the person would want on the other end. What if I can’t answer their question?

Hesitantly, I pick it up. “Good morning, Ryland Davis’s gallery. Chrissy speaking. How can I help you?” I give the rehearsed greeting we went over yesterday.

“You sound awesome, so professional,” Sadie’s voice says on the other end.

“Sadie,” I sigh.

“Do you have your cell phone on? I tried to call you, but it went straight to voicemail.” I open the bottom drawer of the desk and fish my phone out of my purse. Black screen and when I press the button, nothing.

“Crap, it must have died,” I say. “What’s up? Did she have the baby?” I ask.

“She did. Baby girl. Adelaide Rose Bishop. She’s adorable.” She gives all of the specifics, and the hustle of everyone can be heard behind her.

“Oh, please tell them congratulations,” I say quietly, since I’m not sure I should be on a personal phone call.

“I will. Are you going to come up?”

“After work, I’ll head over there. I think Ryland might give me a ride.”