Page 93 of PS: I Hate You

A hand appears over the fragrant cocktail, blocking me from taking a taste.

“Wait.” Dom stares at me, determination in his eyes. “Don’t drink that.”

“What’s up with you?” I snap, my temper making a reappearance. I thought I’d started to get over the insecure irritation Dom inspires in me. But his statue act since arriving at the B&B is wearing on me.

I assume he regrets what he said in the car. That he knows I took it to mean more than he meant.

“Could you…just wait? Don’t drink.”

My cheeks heat. “Do you think I have a problem or something? I normally only have a drink one or two nights a week. I’m not guzzling gin to get through the day.”

Plus, a hot toddy soundssogood right now. Warm lemon and honey with a touch of cloves and the sting of whiskey.

“It’s not that.” Dom retracts his hand, and when I don’t immediately toss back my mug, he keeps talking in a rush. “Every time you’ve kissed me, it’s been after you’ve had a few drinks.” His jaw tenses, then relaxes. “And then you run away. I don’t want it to become a pattern.”

I jerk my head back.

He’s not exactly wrong.

Still, it’s notallmy fault.

“What don’t you want to be a pattern?” I ask. “Me kissing you? Me getting tipsy to do it?” I cross my arms and glare into his too-handsome face.

“I don’t want it to be a pattern for you to kiss me while in a state where I’m not sure if you actually want to or not.” He leans over the small table, dark eyes holding me immobile. “If you’re inebriated, I’m not about to take advantage of you. No matter how badly I want to suck on that pouty lip you’re sticking out right now.”

Said pouty lip falls open along with my jaw. Then I splutter. “I haven’t been drunkeverytime we kissed.”

Dom raises a brow. “Gin on the plane. Beer, gin, and tequila in Delaware. And we were drinking that first time, too.”

He’s right. That summer night, I wanted to treat a stressed-out Dom to his favorite beer. I’d convinced a pool lifeguard to buy me a six-pack of Coors Light—Dom was twenty-one, I assume he has more refined taste now—and I split it with him. Two light beers did not equate to drunk for teenage me. More like just tipsy enough to be brave.

But from the anguish on Dom’s face, the detail stuck with him.

“I’ve never, not once, had a sober kiss from you, Maddie. And it kills me.”

I gape across the table at the man I thought I knew. My brother’s best friend who I believed only ever saw me as an obligation. A responsibility. The pitiful little neighbor girl in need of a charity hookup that he immediately regretted.

Ever since Arizona, I’ve been trying my hardest to situate Dom into the friend category.

Trying my best not to resent him.

Trying my best not to fall in love with him.

Friendship. A simple, clear goal.

But he wants a kiss from me so bad itkillshim?

“How are you kids doing?” Sandra arrives at our table, unaware of the tense weight of our conversation.

After a bracing breath, I offer her a smile. “Good, only I realized I’m pretty tired. If I drink this, it’ll send me straight to sleep. Thank you, though.” I slide the still-steaming mug toward our hostess.

“Maddie—” Dom starts.

“Oh, no problem. You both had an adventurous day. Remember there are extra blankets in your closet and breakfast is served at eight tomorrow morning. Have a good night.” The innkeeper scoops up my drink and offers a wink only I can see before hustling away.

Across the small table I meet Dom’s guarded eyes.

“Come on.” Standing, I manage to speak with a relatively steady tone. “We’re finishing this conversation upstairs.”