Dean leans over and places his hand against my forehead. He gives me a look of sympathy and pulls over to the CVS at the corner. He parks the car and gets out, quickly going inside and returning with a few bags.

He hands me a bottle of water as he cranks the engine again. “Do you still take your coffee the same way?”

I nod and he pulls into a Starbucks drive thru. He orders my usual, a pike blend with toffee and hazelnut syrup, and lots of whipped cream.

I expect him to hand it to me, but he places it in a cup-holder and says, “Wait. I’ll give it to you when we get home.”

I lean against the car window for the rest of the ride home, and when we get there, he pulls me against his side and leads me to the elevator and up to our floor.

Walking me to my room, he opens the door and pulls back the sheets.

“Get in,” he says.

I stumble forward and fall face first onto the mattress.

“Jesus...” He sighs and lifts me up, placing me under the sheets himself. He sets my coffee on my night stand, and he takes out some of the things he bought at CVS as well: Three bottles of orange juice, Tylenol, and cool-packs for my forehead.

He readjusts my sheets and brushes hair off of my face. “Why were you at a bar and not at work?”

“I was having a bad day.”

“Since when do you drink on bad days? You paint on bad days.”

“People change.”

“We don’t.” His eyes are on mine. “At least not that much.” He turns on my lamp and turns off my alarm clock. “Regardless of the bad day, why didn’t you just stay home?”

“I locked myself out.”

“Then why didn’t you call?”

“Because I would’ve had to call you.” The liquor is still rushing through my veins. “I didn’t want to call you.”

“Because you hate me that much?”

I nod. “Because you hate me, too.”

Silence.

“Do you need anything else?” he asks.

“No.” I try to roll onto my side, but it doesn’t work.

Shaking his head, Dean grabs my hips and helps me. He leans down and looks at me, pressing his hand against my forehead once more, and I’m not sure what comes over me, but I press my forehead against his and kiss him. Thoroughly.

My arms go around his neck and I continue to kiss him because I suddenly have the urge, because I want to. And for some strange reason, I feel like I need to. My tongue slides against his and I moan into his mouth, but then I realize that he’s not kissing me back and my eyes widen.

Before I can pull away in complete embarrassment, he runs his fingers through my hair and kisses me harder than I was kissing him. His lips fit perfectly onto mine. It feels so good that I’m not sure whether I’m dreaming or not.

I don’t get a chance to figure out if I’m in reality or not because all of a sudden, I pass out.

Chapter 20

MIA

ERIC:  Are you awake?

MIA:  Barely...

ERIC:  Is this your goddamn vomit on my kitchen floor? Is this from last night?

MIA:  What? I don’t remember...

ERIC:  [eye-roll emoji] I need for you to never drink alcohol again. At least, not while I’m gone to this conference this weekend. Can you promise me that?

MIA:  It was just a one-time thing. Once. It won’t happen again.

ERIC: It better not. No parties either.

MIA:  Really? :-( What about an orgy?

ERIC:  Stop fucking with me, Mia. And add “orgy” to the list of words to never say to your brother.

MIA:  Done deal. Have a safe trip :-)

At some point last night, I do remember stumbling into the kitchen—maybe vomiting, and then forcing myself to stand in the shower. I’m pretty sure I returned to bed naked, but when I woke up, I was wearing leggings and a cami, so I’m going to pretend like I got up randomly and did that myself. Since I have the apartment to myself this afternoon, I refuse to make any attempts to change into anything else until Monday, though.

I toss my phone onto my bed and grab a bottle of orange juice off my nightstand. I toss back a few aspirin and go into the living room.

I turn on the TV, looking for something good to watch, but I get through over 100 channels and don’t find anything.

I can’t believe there aren’t any mindless chick flicks on. That should be a crime...

Frustrated, I switch to the high definition channels, and before I can give up, I find my favorite movie’s opening scene.

I unfold the blanket at the edge of the couch and lay it over me, swooning over the movie, as if it’s my first time watching it.

Right at the part when the two leads meet for the first time, I hear someone unlocking the front door.

“Hey,” Dean says as he walks inside, but I don’t look over.

“Hey...” I turn up the volume, making it clear that we will not be talking today.

He must get the hint, because he laughs softly and I hear him walking into the kitchen. I hear him making all types of noise—getting out pots and pans, starting the blender, and opening and re-opening the fridge.

I consider muting the TV until he’s finished, but I’m fifteen minutes away from my favorite part of the movie and regardless of the fact that he helped me last night or not, I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.

The noises in the kitchen come to an end, and I smell the sweet smell of bread and soup. I still don’t turn around, though.

The next thing I hear is Dean walking behind me, down the hallway, and shutting his bathroom door. Then I hear the sound of water in the shower.

The aroma of the soup and bread infiltrates my senses with each second that passes, but I keep my attention glued to the TV.

Why is he home so early today?

Halfway through the movie, Dean comes out of the bathroom and returns to the kitchen. He makes a few more noises with pots, and the next thing I know, he’s placing two bowls of soup on the coffee table and sitting next to me.

“Temporary truce?” He asks, shirtless and letting water fall from his damp hair onto his chest.

“Temporary?”

“I’m sure within two hours we’ll hate each other again, but as a fellow human being, I’m assuming you haven’t eaten today, correct?”

I nod.

“So, a temporary truce, with soup. Just for now.”

“Fine.” I lean forward and grab one of the bowls, taking a spoon from his hand. I try my best not to look over at him again, but every so often, I find myself stealing glances. I find myself wondering if it’s really possible for him to have gotten that much sexier in ten years.

As the lead characters in the movie laugh and lean in for a kiss, I hear him letting out a deep sigh. Then he rolls his eyes.

“Since when do vampires sparkle?” he asks.

“They always have.”

“Right.” He rolls his eyes again. “I can’t take much more of this.”

“Well, good thing you don’t have to. You have your own room, and from what I recall, you have an even bigger TV.”

“How would you know?”

“I wouldn’t,” I say, blushing. “I’m just speculating.”

“I’m sure.” He sets down his bowl. “What made you dye your hair?”

“What?”

“Your hair.” He looks as if he’s going to run his fingers through my new auburn and blonde streak locks, but he holds back. “I liked it better dark brown.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to keep it this way then, especially since I’ve always lived my life for you.”

His lips curve into a smirk. “I see a lot hasn’t changed.”

“The fact that you still annoy me? No, that hasn’t changed at all.”

“You sure about that?”

“Pretty sure.”

“So, do you normally make it a habit to make-out with guys that annoy you?”

“I did not ‘make out’ with you.”

“You kissed the shit out of me,” he says. “Were you feeling horny? Sexually deprived?”

“Neither. I was drunk.”