First Draft Romance

CHAPTER SIX

After a few hours of chatting and I-don't-know-how-many drinks, Roz's cheeks are flushed pink. Her smile is wider yet softer, her speech a little more slurred, her cocoa perfume mingling with the sharpness of alcohol spilled on her jacket's lapel.

We've been going kind of hard, ever since I finished my TLDR-ified version of what happened with Gina this morning. I was grateful that Roz didn't push me for more than I was willing to give—instead, she snatched up her glass and said, "Well, she sounds like a bitch. How do you feel about getting absolutely wasted during your workday?"

I clinked her glass with my own, and now I'm to that wonderfully uncomfortable state of drunkenness, where I'm very comfy and very toasty and very floaty, as well as at the "any burp is a risk" stage.

Willow drops off yet another round of drinks for us—one called "Where You Been, Loca" for Roz, and a "Son of the Sea" for me. I don't know if the warmth blossoming in my chest is from all the drinks, or because Roz and I seem to actually be getting along, maybe even beyond as just assistant and employer, but it's unmistakably there. The flutter. The heat. The inexplicable pull to another person that I haven't felt in ... well, years.

Of course, I know I'm crazy for thinking this way. Has Roz been flirty? Or is she just being nice? I'm not too sure I could tell, even if I was sober. Honestly, right now, my thoughts are pinging around my head in slow motion—and I, as it stands, am too slow to catch them. So, instead of sitting here and overanalyzing this interaction with Roz, I'm going to tell myself that Roz is just being nice, and that all this warmth and fluttering and whatnot are from being three sheets to the wind on what I'm pretty sure is an empty stomach.

"Keep 'em coming," Roz calls to Willow as she flounces back towards the stairs. "We're celebrating. And mourning."

"Here, here," I say, raising my drink.

I can hardly believe that I'm drunk. That we both are. For me, this drunkness is a woozy kind of lightness behind my eyes and the inability to form coherent sentences. For Roz, it's swaying while giggling, with the (somewhat terrifying) added bonus of being really touchy. She's grabbed my forearm at least six times now. I think she also, like, booped my nose once? It's hazy. I'm unsure. All I know is, I'm on the verge of having a goddamn infarction.

But that's definitely another perk of being drunk: my thoughts are too incoherent to be severely inappropriate and/or intrusive.

"Oh my god," Roz says, reaching across me for my drink. I lean back on instinct, but her arm still brushes my shoulder, and I suck in a breath. "This is so pretty."

To be fair, the drink is. It smells terrible, even from here, but it's a hypnotizing swirl of silver glitter and cerulean liqueur. Roz swirls it around in her hand, staring at the glitter floating around in the swath of bright blues. She pulls back, but not all the way back. She's still leaning towards me, propped up on her free hand, completely focused on my drink.

Then she looks over at me. And I swear, I'm not breathing.

Her lips curve up in a shy smile. I'm sure I look terrified right now. Our faces are so fucking close, oh my god. Does she not realize how easy it would be to lean in and kiss her right now? Surely, she must.

I'm staring at her lips. Roz's voice is smokier than usual when she whispers, "What about you? Do you think it's pretty?"

I swallow. Hard. Then somehow, I manage to make something close to eye contact with her. "Yeah, um, it's ... gorgeous."

"Mind if I take a sip?" she asks, cocking her head.

Fuck my life. "Yeah, yeah, go for it, for sure."

She takes a small sip, from the side of the glass instead of the blue straw, and clumsily hands me back my glass. Her eyes are shut lightly, which is good, because I'm staring. Fuck. I shouldn't be staring at her. I turn my attention to the glass, and at the blurred cherry-red mark where, a few seconds ago, her lips pressed against the edge.