The Pairing (The Proposition #3)(16)

“For some reason, I don’t believe that.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Let me guess. You think that I’m a ‘refined’ man who drinks wine, would never think of cussing or have inappropriate thoughts, organizes his underwear drawer, and who considers doing the crossword puzzle a fun Friday night?”

Megan couldn’t help snorting at his summation. It was a good distraction not to focus on how he had mentioned inappropriate thoughts and his underwear drawer. At the moment, she was having inappropriate thoughts about his underwear…or hopefully lack thereof. Of course, she couldn’t help judging him as not being the commando type. “No, that’s not what I think of you.”

“I would hope not. I know that since I’m a little older than you—”

“Just a little?”

The corners of his lips turned up. “Obviously you think I’m an old man.”

“No, I don’t,” she blurted.

“How old do you think I am? Just shy of adult diapers and a walker?”

She scowled at him. “I was not insinuating that at all. I think you’re probably close to Ankle’s age.”

Pesh’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Ankle?”

She laughed before explaining where the nickname came from.

“I see. So just how old is Ankle again?”

“Thirty-four.”

“Hmm,” Pesh murmured.

“Are you younger than that?”

“Older actually. I’m thirty-seven.”

Damn, he was a lot older than her. Twelve years to be exact. “Did I shock you?” he asked, with a teasing lilt in his voice.

She shook her head. “I’d hardly call thirty-seven old.”

“It’s considerably older than you are, right?”

“I suppose,” she lied.

He grinned at her as he leaned on the table with his elbows. “And just how old are you?”

“Twenty-five—I’ll be twenty-six in a few months.”

“Twenty-five going on twenty-six.”

“Yes.”

“I must be positively ancient to you.” He held out his hand and examined it. “I might have a liver spot or two.”

She smacked his hand playfully. “Shut up. Thirty-seven is not old.”

“See any grey hairs?” he asked, bending over to where his delicious head of hair was in front of her face. Her fingers itched to run through the dark strands. Her mind ran straight to an illicit image of her fingers tugging on his hair as he went down on her, jerking too hard when he sucked and licked her until she came, and then stroking the damp hair back from his forehead as he rose up to cover her body with his.

She cleared her throat that had run dry. “No, of course not.”

He jerked his head up to wink at her. “Then there’s hope for me yet.”

“I would think so.”

Aidan appeared then, carrying all the drinks on a tray. “I expect a tip when you guys finish,” he teased.

“I’ll remember that,” Megan replied.

After jerking his chin toward the table next to him, Aidan said, “Why don’t you guys come over here with us?”

She fought the urge to slap him. She was enjoying having Pesh to herself. “Um, sure. Okay,” she said, reluctantly rising out of her chair. When they changed tables, she was glad to see Pesh take the empty chair beside her, rather than across from her.

Once she got settled in, she wasn’t lamenting her seat change too much. Between Casey, and Emma’s other best friend, Connor, the table was kept in raucous laughter. It was good being with a group of friends. After she had gotten pregnant, she didn’t have much in common with her sorority sisters anymore. Then when she became a mom, she rarely saw anyone from her old group. Her life moved in an entirely different orbit than theirs now.

The conversation and laughter flowed as easily as the drinks. Megan found herself halfway through her second margarita when she started feeling funny. A flush filled her cheeks at the same time she felt clammy. As Aidan came back with another beer, she asked, “Did you put something different in this one?”

“Yeah, we ran out of the tequila I got for the party, so I gave my favorite niece a good dose of Sierra Silver.”

“What?” Megan demanded.

Aidan’s brows furrowed behind his tipped back beer bottle. Once he swallowed, he asked, “Does it taste bad?”

Megan pinched her eyes shut. The room was beginning to spin around her a little. As she brought her hand to her forehead, she heard a smack across the room and Aidan cry, “Ow, dammit, Em!”

“That tequila is a hundred and fifty proof alcohol, Aidan,” Emma chastised.

“Sorry. I didn’t realize it. I just thought it was the better stuff because it was white tequila. That’s your drink of choice, not mine.”

Oh God, she was in so much trouble. She’d barely consumed any alcohol since she got pregnant and had Mason. Now she’d had one regular dosed margarita and almost a full one of straight alcohol.

A gentle hand landed on her thigh. “Are you all right?” Pesh asked.

She opened her eyes to see two blurry images of him staring at her with concern. “Not exactly.”

“Would you like me to take you home?”