The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(26)

My walk of shame begins here.

I can do this. I can walk into this guy’s kitchen and look him in the eye, thank him for everything he did for me last night. I will suck up my pride and have an adult conversation whether there is black mascara smudged under my eyes or not.

I owe him that much.

He’s leaning against a wooden countertop when I walk into the room, that white coffee mug still grasped in his large, mammoth hands.

“Hey.” He nods in my direction. “Feel better?”

“Somewhat human, thanks.”

“You should drink this.” He holds another cup toward me and I take it, bashful now that he’s still being so nice.

He should have kicked me out by now, and I wonder why he hasn’t. I’ve been nothing but a pain in his ass. When will he have had enough?

I sip on the ice water in my hands, grateful for the liquid, which feels wonderful sliding down my throat. I watch him from above the rim of the cup. He’s not creepy at all, despite his size. Tall and built, I can tell he works out. Maybe he plays intramural sports? Goes to the gym? He does something for sure—his arms are way too toned for him to be sitting around doing nothing.

His green eyes never stray from my face, laugh lines appearing at the corners, wrinkling when I plop down in his kitchen chair with a loud sigh.

“I know I’ve already said this several times, but I really am sorry about all this.” I pause, fiddling with the plastic cup in my hands.

“Right place, right time.”

“Yes.” I bow my head, staring down at the cup, reading the screen-printed label on its side. Raise my eyes, shooting him a crooked, wane smile. “You don’t even know my name. I don’t know yours.”

There’s a long silent pause.

“Elliot.”

“Elliot,” I repeat. “What’s your last name?”

He shifts against the counter, stuffing one hand in the pocket of his sweatpants. “St. Charles.”

Elliot St. Charles, ooh la la.

It’s an awesome name I let linger in my mind, turning it around and around, romanticizing it. St. Charles.

Saint Charles.

Charles.

Saint.

“Saint—that’s a nice way to think of you, since you’ve rescued me twice in one week.” I say it softly into the confines of his tiny kitchen; it’s so tiny, there’s barely room for both of us at this small table. “I’m not normally the kind of girl who needs rescuing, let alone this many times within the span of a few short days.”

“Saint.” His expression is impossible to read, his mouth…those lips…an impassive line. “I don’t know if that’s how I’d describe myself.”

“But it seems to suits you.”

Those gorgeous lips twitch. “How would you know?”

My butt wiggles in the chair. “First, you came over to console me in the library.”

“That’s because you stole my spot.”

“I did? How?” What on earth is he talking about?

“That’s the table I sit at when I study.”

I laugh.

Wince because ouch, that hurts my head.

“I’d say I owe it back to you then.”

His nod is slow, deliberate. “I’ll allow it.” Sips from his mug. “What else have I done to earn the nickname?”

“You brought me to your house to keep me safe,” I explain. “A complete stranger. I could have been a complete psycho.”

God, what if I’d puked?

“I could have been a complete psycho, too. Maybe I still am.”

My face flushes red hot, a blush so deep I feel it move from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

“You are not.”

“How would you know?”

“I opened your cabinets—you don’t have any medications.”

We both laugh, and when he sits down across from me at the small wooden table, I can’t stop the heat warming up my entire body.

His large wide shoulders and smooth exposed skin.

“I might have overstepped my boundaries, but I couldn’t leave you at that party. You were way too drunk.”

Yes, he could have.

He totally could have, and he also could have taken advantage of me, of the fact that I was three sheets to the wind drunk. Trashed. Wasted. Blacked out. Unconscious.

But Elliot didn’t.

He could have done all sorts of terrible things to me and he chose to…keep me safe. What a nice freaking guy.

“Elliot, I’m sure you’ve seen your fair share of drunk chicks about to pass out at parties. What was it that made you leave with me?”

He stares toward the window. Purses his lips. “I knew why you were getting trashed.” Turns to face me. “And trust me, I was trying to get you to your house, but you couldn’t tell your left from your right.”

Taking me home, back to Dad’s would have been a blessing and a curse.

I briefly imagine Elliot taking me to my father’s house, dumping me on the front stoop. Ringing the doorbell and having Dad answer, most likely in his robe, furious.

At me.

At Elliot, because he no doubt would have misinterpreted the entire situation.

Elliot studies me, an easy grin brightening his face, white teeth way too perfect. He’s altogether too alert, way too cheerful considering he spent the entire night on an uncomfortable-looking couch. I give it a glance over my shoulder—no way did his tall frame fit on that thing.