Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(90)

“Um…” I don’t remember lying down on the floor. Except there’s a bottle of Scotch just out of his reach. And it’s empty. We broke out the Scotch because I was sad about something.

But what?

Anton sits up. “Shit. What time is it?”

“How would I know?” I haven’t reached a vertical position yet. Both my knees are so stiff that I have to work up the courage first.

He fumbles for his phone. “Nine-thirty.”

“Morning skate is at ten,” I point out.

“Fuck!” He leaps to his feet with the agility that twenty-two-year-old professional athletes possess. “We gotta get going!”

“You gotta,” I correct. “I have physical therapy at noon.” At least I managed to have my drinking spree the night before a nice, late start. That’s the luckiest thing that’s happened to me in a while.

Something unlucky happened last night, I think. I just can’t remember what. “Where did we go after the tavern?” I ask, heaving my aching torso off the floor, and sitting up.

Anton is already galloping toward my bathroom. “Manhattan!” Now I hear water running. “We didn’t stay long, though. Your girl threw you out.”

My girl.

Alex.

Alex in a nightgown.

Alex in a nightgown with a pissed-off expression.

Alex yelling at me not to kneel down on the marble floor.

Kneel down?

Dread settles over me like a cold fog. I have vague memories of talking to Alex in her foyer. But there’s still a chance that was all some kind of drunken dream.

“Anton?” I slowly ease my body into a standing position. “Why did we drink Scotch when we came home?”

He sticks his face out of the bathroom door. It’s still half covered with shaving cream. “You were sad she said no.”

“She said no,” I repeat with mounting horror. To what? I was talking about Alex last night. That part I remember. I said I loved her. Even if my blood was fifty percent alcohol, it’s still true. I love her.

That’s something you tell, though. Not ask.

So what did I ask her? I suppose it could have been…

Nah. Even at my drunkest, I wouldn’t be that stupid. Or that boorish.

Anton comes out of the bathroom, naked as a jay bird. “Do you know where my suitcase went?”

“I think it’s under the coffee table. What did Alex say no to? Did I want to stay overnight?” Please say yes.

He grabs his suitcase and then gives me a pitying look. “No, dude. That’s not it. But this ain't over. You can go to Tiffany later and buy a ring. I swear it will make all the difference.”

“A ring.” I almost choke on the word. “What kind of ring?”

“Oh buddy.” He shakes his head. “And here I thought you were the smarter one. It’s a diamond, man. Always propose with a diamond.”

“Anton.” My heart stops. “Why did you get me loaded and tell me to propose?”

“I didn’t know you were going there,” he says with a shrug. “You just wanted to tell her you loved her. I think the marriage thing mighta just popped out.”

“It just popped out.”

“Yeah, man. And you went with it. Balls to the wall!” He pumps his fist. “You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”

I’m never drinking again.

My phone starts playing The Hall of the Mountain King again, at a head-splitting volume. I ignore it.

“Look, I gotta bounce,” Anton says. “Want to go out again tonight?”

“No!” Jesus.

“Even for dinner?” My young cousin looks insulted. “Drake said I gotta try Brooklyn pizza.”

“Sure, maybe. After I spend the day trying to figure out how to apologize to Alex.” No woman deserves a slurred marriage proposal from a drunken buffoon.

I really do love Alex. I want to be with her. And I think I just fucked that up. I pick my phone up off the floor to find that it has a cracked screen. There’s no telling when that happened.

It does not, however, have any texts from Alex. I was hoping for something along the lines of: Morning sunshine. You sure were funny last night! Talk later?

But no.

There are several texts from my brother, though. And every one of them makes me grumpy. Answer your phone. Eric. Come on, it’s almost ten. I need to talk to you.

And, finally: Don’t text Alex. I doubt she wants to hear from you. Just call me back instead.

“No fucking way!” I yell, as if he could hear me.

Anton gives me a wary look, waves, and then runs out my apartment door.

I’m just pouring myself a glass of orange juice when my phone rings again. But it’s not Max, so I have to peer at the cracked screen to identify the caller.

DUFF it says.

“Hi,” I say into the phone. “Whatever you were going to say, can it wait until after I’ve metabolized some painkillers?”

“No man,” he says, chuckling. “I’m downstairs in the car. Get down here.”

“Why? Did I agree to go somewhere?”

“Nope. But I brought you two egg sandwiches from Lenwich, and a cup of coffee.”

Ooh, Lenwich. My mouth waters. “With bacon?”