Chapter 17: Chapter 16

What does Whisky and sleep deprivation get you? The inability to stop yourself from blurting things out of context. A dangerous combination.

I finished off my first glass of Whisky in one shot, wiped my mouth, and put it down on the coffee table. "Take off your shirt."

Tate blinked up at me from the couch, taking a beat to process my words. "Um... no?" He didn't sound that confident in his answer.

"There's blood all over it," I explained before he could go into a monologue about how I was going to rob him of his virtue.

Tate raised a brow. "It's from my nose..." he said slowly. "You don't have to check my body for cuts. That's a flimsy excuse to see me shirtless Allie."

I pinched my nose, irritated. "You are so full of yourself," I muttered. "I'm just trying to save your shirt. It's white. It'll stain," I insisted.

A slow smile spread across Tate's face, making his eyes spark with amusement. "SUUUUUUURRRREEEE," he replied.

"Do you want to save your shirt or not?" I snapped, moving over to the couch, and holding out my hand, waiting for him to hand it over.

Tate sighed and after wrestling with the buttons, threw his shirt at me with a self-conscious flail before leaning back on the couch, ice pack back on his face.

He sported a white tank underneath his shirt, but that did very little to keep his muscles hidden. It was like trying to cover a Titan with tissue paper. We all knew what was behind curtain number three. Broad beautiful shoulders that curved down to a set of powerful arms. Forearms with prominent veins that cut down to a pair of strong fingers. And of course, the piece de resistance, a set of washboard abs you could use as a freaking cheese grater. WHAT THE HELL?!?

I yanked my eyes away and I looked up at the ceiling to keep myself from staring at him. It was like looking at one of those romance books with a cover that was just a set of abs glistening in the moonlight. Sure they were pretty to look at but you didn't want to get caught staring at them like some slack-jawed drooler.

I didn't trust myself to make eye contact with Tate, so I just looked at my ceiling, concentrating on every crack, bump, and detail, pretending to be utterly fascinated. "Your undershirt has blood on it too," I added, regretting— no happy with— no regretting my words instantly. This is going to give me a heart attack. The less clothes he has on, the closer to death I get.

Tate laughed. "I swear you are trying to—"

"I'm not trying to do anything other than save your clothes! Why don't you care about them? You should treat your clothes better!" I told the ceiling, staring it down like a lifeline.

Don't ogle Tate. Don't ogle Tate. For all that is good in this world, be cool and don't OGLE TATE!

"Allie?"

"Yes?" I replied to the ceiling.

"Something interesting up there?" he asked, his tone amused.

"Yes actually," I squinted at the ceiling for show. "Trying to decide if I should paint the ceiling a different color. Blue maybe."

"Here."

I pulled my eyes from the ceiling and was instantly rewarded with a fantastic, front-row seat to Tate's bare broad chest. Hello, handsome!

I hadn't even realized he'd gotten off the couch. My brain suddenly died. All the power used to make words was suddenly needed to shoot my heart into hyperdrive. I clamped my mouth shut to stop myself from saying something stupid like "Yum!"

I stumbled backward, shocked and flustered by the sight, which was odd. He wasn't the first guy I'd seen without a shirt. But my body didn't seem to remember that. And I hadn't mentally prepared to be that close to this bare-chested hottie.

Tate normally diffused everything with a joke, but there was nothing funny about this. On the contrary, I was suddenly very aware that I was alone with a very shirtless Tate in my apartment.

That knowledge was all it took to throw me off balance like a toddler learning how to walk. And because I hadn't injured myself enough for a day, my legs slammed into my coffee table and I fell backwards, hitting the ground with all the grace of a narwhal trying to make a u-turn.

The air left my body, the wind was knocked out of me and I was left staring at the ceiling, unable to breathe, my face on fire with embarrassment. What is wrong with me today?!? Calm down Allie, it's just skin!

A pair of green eyes came into view. "Holy crap Allie. Are you okay?"

I opened my mouth to say something, but air hadn't returned to my lungs yet. It was taking its sweet time, leaving me with a very long, dramatic pause and no words to fill it with.

Don't worry about me. I just need a moment to learn how to breathe again after seeing you shirtless.

I held up a finger, expressing that I needed a minute to scrape up what little dignity I had left and wait for air to find its way back to my body. But after getting another fantastic, life-sized closeup shot of Tate's bare chest, I pushed his forehead up and away with my lone finger, hoping he would get the hint that his presence was not helping make things better. Backup before you set me on fire!

I gasped, air finally filling my lungs. "What did you do that for?" I breathed.

"I was trying to hand you my shirt." Tate waved it in front of my face as evidence as he crouched next to me. "You were yelling at me about ruining it. Then you were mumbling about painting your ceiling. And then you just..." The words hung in the air for a beat as Tate searched for the right words. He tilted his head to the side, chestnut strands of hair falling into his face.

Our eyes caught and for a brief moment, time seemed to stop as I looked up at him from the ground. I had the sudden and insane desire to pounce on him. To kiss him. To see if those abs were in fact real or see if he had found a way to make CGI abs look insanely real. Tate's eyes grew dark, a flash of desire sparking. The look left my mouth dry, my mind swirling with possibilities.

But a moment later, Tate blinked and looked away. He rocked back on his heels, running his fingers through his hair, finishing his thought. "...fell over."

I plucked his shirt out of his grasp and winced as sharp pain snaked across my injured wrist. I dropped the shirt and it landed on my face, adding insult to injury. I am a mess today.

Tate reached down and gently wrapped his fingers around my arms, helping me sit up. His shirt slipped off my face, landing on my lap. He scanned my wrist, concern furrowing his brow. "You're hurt."

I pulled my arms away. "I'm fine."

Stumbling to my feet, I took several steps back, needing a little space to think clearly and not look like an ogling weirdo, who had to physically fight her want to touch him. "I'm gonna put these in the wash. I'll bring you something to wear."

Then with all the class that I lacked lately, I bolted from the living room, avoiding all eye contact with... well Tate in general.

I closed the door to the laundry room behind me, and slid to the ground, giving myself a moment to breathe. "Could you be any less insane?" I hissed at myself, waving my face, trying to erase a mad blush that had consumed my complexion.

Images of shirtless Tate popped up in my mind as evidence that I was in fact not insane and had every right to be flustered, which only lead to an internal argument, logic, and emotion each fighting to win.

After sitting on the ground for far longer than I should have, and coming to the conclusion that I shouldn't trust my emotions, I managed to throw Tate's clothes into the washing machine. Slipping out of my own paint-covered clothes, I tossed them in too. Then I dumped my hamper of clean clothes on top of the washer, thankful that I had enough common sense to leave all my clean clothes in the laundry room.

Normally I poured them all over a chair in my bedroom. I didn't believe in folding clothes I wore around the house. I just pulled them out of my clothes mountain, wore them, washed them, and threw them back into the pile again. Why ruin a routine that works?

Slipping on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top, I pulled out an oversized flannel, enjoying the feeling of warm freshly washed clothes on my body. I walked back into the living room where I spotted Tate in the kitchen, arm deep into a box of Cheerios.

Holding up his hand, Tate poured them into his mouth like a waterfall. It was the sexiest Cheerio commercial I had ever seen. Wait... do they make Cheerios commercials? If they don't, they should. All they would have to do is hire Tate to stand there without a shirt, eating them by the handful. I swear they would sell out in an hour. Million-dollar idea.

Yanking my eyes away, I cleared my throat to get his attention. "Here." I chucked the flannel shirt at him. Tate had just enough time to pour the last set of Cheerios into his mouth before the shirt hit him in the chest.

Pushing himself up onto the kitchen counter, he sat down and pulled the dark green flannel sleeves over his forearms, before cutting off all ability to the shirtless Tate show. I had to admit, I was already missing it.

The sight of him wearing my favorite shirt sent a strange flutter through my chest. It looked perfect on him. It had a strange feeling of home on him. Like he belonged in it— I need more sleep. I need to stop this crazy brain train.

"Let me see your wrist," Tate said motioning for me to come into the kitchen so he could take a look at me.

I clutched my wrist to my chest. "Pass. I'm fine."

He raised a brow, making it clear he wasn't taking no for an answer. "Let me see."

Letting out a puff of air, I walked into the kitchen and hesitantly held out my wrist. Tate slowly took my wrist into his hands. It was swollen and sore. He touched the skin gently. "Does it hurt?"

I winced. "No."

"Liar," he muttered shooting me an irritated expression.

"Drama King," I replied dryly.

"Shooting off lame excuses to see me shirtless," he retorted.

I blushed but stared him down. "You're welcome for trying to save your clothes. Next time I'll let you continue looking like you survived a ketchup massacre.

Tate snorted. "I'll make sure to stay away from ketchup then." He looked down at my wrist. "Allie, your wrist—"

"Just let it go—" I began to protest but he shot me another warning look, his green eyes sharp and strangely hypnotic as they stared me down while sporting my flannel shirt that only made them brighter.

"You should get this checked out by a doctor."

I rolled my eyes. "You're one to talk."

Tate let go of my hand, a guarded expression crossing his face. "It was a clean nose break. I don't need to go to the doctor." He looked down at my wrist again, changing the subject. "It's dislocated." He hesitated. "I can pop it back into place, but it'll hurt... A lot."

"Do I want to know how you know how to do that?" I asked.

"I could ask the same thing about my nose. Either you go to the doctor or I do this."

The cherry on top of my crap day. I closed my eyes, gritting my teeth. "Do it."

He took my wrist again, and a moment later, I heard a loud pop. Pain cracked to life in my wrist as he pushed it back into place. I blurted out a loud string of curses. Which when cleaned up a bit sounded a lot like, "HOLY CRAP ON A CRACKER THAT MOTH FART HURT LIKE A HECK OF A BARNICLE!"

I went to pull my wrist free, but Tate continued to hold it in a gentle grip. "I'm sorry I scared you," he said in a soft tone. "I didn't mean to make you fall out of the chair." He began to slowly rub my wrist, massaging feeling back into it with each tender touch.

I looked away, moved by the gentleness. Overwhelmed by how utterly kind he was being after I had full-blown punched him in the face.

I shrugged, trying to look unphased. "I'm sorry about your face."

He plucked up the ice pack he had been using on himself and placed it gently on my wrist. "It's feeling a lot better." Then Tate pushed himself off the counter forcing me to take a step back to keep some distance between us.

"I didn't know you knew how to play darts." He motioned to the front door where a dartboard hung on the back of the door.

"An entire book could be filled with the things you don't know about me," I said adjusting the ice pack.

Shoving his hand back into the Cheerios box, Tate smiled. "Okay, let's make this interesting. If you can still throw..." He popped several more Cheerios into his mouth. "...then we play. And if I win a round, you have to answer any question I throw at you."

I scoffed, suddenly enjoying the idea of a light moment after a ridiculously difficult day. "And what do I get when you lose?" Joke's on him. I will kick his butt. I've never lost a game.

Tate smiled taking a step closer to me,  forcing me to tilt my head up to look him in the eye. "Whatever you want." His smile turned playful. "Unlike you, I am an open book."

I narrowed my eyes, a dangerous smile playing across my lips. "You are on."

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Thank you for reading chapter sixteen! I hope you are enjoying the story! Or are at least curious to see where it goes! The next chapter is going to be amazing. Can't wait to share it with you!

UPDATE DAYS - A NEW CHAPTER EVERY FRIDAY!

Looks like a game of darts and twenty questions is about to begin!

Who will win?

Will Tate get to ask Allie any question he wants?

Or will he lose, leaving Allie with WAY too much power over him?

CHAPTER QUESTION - Is there any game that you consider yourself an expert at? If so, what is it?