downing in swift succession were the key to unlocking them. “I’ll repeat it, then. Want to bet?” He enunciated each word with exaggerated precision as he turned to look at her.
She smirked, somehow a few inches shorter than him even though she always seemed to take up so much space. “Oh, I’ll take that bet. How much?”
He named a sum he knew she couldn’t possibly afford.
She rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand that glinted silver and gold with an impressive array of rings, including more than one in the shape of a skull or dagger.
He despised her. Every inch of her. Which he drank in against his will.
“Delaneys love to flaunt their money.”
He flashed a wolfish grin, enjoying far too much the way her eyes narrowed as if preparing to ward him off. Good luck, little girl. “Chicken?”
Some little voice in the back of his head reminded him of propriety. Reminded him of his place in Bent and the fact that getting in a drinking competition with Vanessa would only end in embarrassment and trouble. It went against everything he believed and stood for, and he should just walk away.
He stood where he was and ignored that voice.
When he woke up the next morning, definitely not in his own bed, ignoring that voice was the last thing he remembered.
* * *
VANESSA WAS DYING. From the inside out. So, so many bad decisions made last night. But it was her brother’s fault for marrying a Delaney. That she was sure of.
She groaned, rolling over in bed as her stomach roiled in protest. She’d had her fair share of hangovers, but this one was truly something.
And now she was hallucinating.
Had to be. Because there was no way on God’s green earth that Dylan Delaney was in her bed.
No Delaney man was naked in her bed, in the middle of her apartment above her mechanic shop. She looked to the left. There was her little kitchen, the hall with the bathroom door. She looked to the right, at the door to the stairs down to the shop, and in that line of vision was clearly a man.
As she blinked at that shape of a man next to her, it was Dylan’s dark eyes that widened and sharpened. It was every gorgeous plane of Dylan Delaney’s face that went very, very hard.
Vanessa closed her eyes tight, counted to ten in a whisper. It had to be a dream. It had to be an alcohol-induced mirage. It had to be anything but the truth.
But when she was done counting, Dylan was still there.
“Apparently bad dreams do come true,” Dylan said, his voice all delicious rough gravel.
Get yourself together. Nothing about Dylan Delaney is delicious.
She watched, horrified, really she was horrified and not intrigued at all, as he flung the covers—her covers—off of him and stood, clearly having no compunction about being naked in her room.
With jerky movements, he pulled on his pants from last night. Last night. She’d...
“You can’t tell anyone.” If she’d been feeling better she would have kept that inside. Ignored the panic and held on to the upper hand. But she was dying, and she’d apparently slept with Dylan Delaney.
She remembered nothing. Nothing about last night beyond the wedding ceremony where her rough-and-tumble brother had promised himself forever to goody-two-shoes Laurel Delaney. A cop.
Beyond that, everything got fuzzier and fuzzier until...
Best kiss of your life.
Ha! She’d been drunk. How would she have known?
Dylan gave her one smoldering look—enough her heart started pumping overtime and her whole body seemed to blaze with heat. She could almost, almost picture them together, feel his big rough hands on her—
But Dylan Delaney, a bank manager, did not have rough hands. She was hallucinating. And was that a tattoo on his chest that disappeared as he pulled his shirt on and began to button it?
“Who on earth do you think I’d tell about this horrifying lapse in judgment?” he said disgustedly.
It didn’t sting, because she felt the same way. Except lapse in judgment was way too tame. Catastrophe of epic proportions was more appropriate.
A catastrophe she would also blame on Grady, because if he hadn’t married a Delaney, she wouldn’t have gotten drunk enough to sleep with one.
Dylan was now completely dressed, and she was still naked in her bed. Naked.
“We’ll both forget this ever happened,” Dylan said. No. He demanded it, like she was a peon to be ordered about. But even she couldn’t work up contrariness at his tone when this had happened.
“I don’t even know what happened. We didn’t really...” But he’d been naked, and she was naked so...
“I don’t remember either. So we’ll just say we didn’t.”
“But—”
“We didn’t,” he said firmly, patting down his pockets. “I have my wallet. No keys.”
“Surely neither of us were stupid enough to drive.”
“Surely neither of us were stupid enough to have someone drive us together anywhere.” He sighed, running an agitated hand through sleep-tousled hair. He did not look like his normal slick self. He was disheveled and...
Appealing.
No, not that.
“Hate sex is a thing,” she blurted, feeling unaccountably out of control and nervous. Which did not make any sense, but she couldn’t seem to straighten herself out. It had to be the hangover and all the booze still in her system.
He scowled, and Vanessa didn’t understand why her eyes wanted to track the small lines around his mouth or note the way dark stubble dotted his chin where it had been smooth last night.
There was something compelling about him. She’d admit it now and regain some of her control. They were polar opposites, and sometimes when polar opposites got drunk enough, they ended up attracting.
She’d swear off alcohol for the rest of her life right here, right now.
“Hate sex is not a thing. Not for me it’s not.”
“Apparently for drunk you it was.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m leaving. We’ll never speak of this again. And if anyone saw us...”
“We lie,” Vanessa supplied for him.
He seemed startled by that word, but what else was there to do?
