I laughed and with a shake of my head, I took the bottle of bourbon from him and drank. I wheezed and coughed.
He chuckled and took the bottle back. Boxer rested his elbows on his thighs and spread them apart so his knee grazed my pants. “You came here to talk. So, talk.”
“Why are you depressed?” I asked instead.
“Who says I’m depressed?”
“Those girls were crawling all over you, and you barely even noticed them.”
He climbed off the picnic table and turned to face me. Boxer held the bottle of liquor by the neck, and he let his hand fall to his side. He loomed over me, his face darkening with annoyance.
“You shouldn’t have bothered coming. It was a waste of time. If you’re not gonna be honest with me, then what the hell are you doing here?”
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry with nerves.
“Fuck this. I’m done.” Boxer turned and started to walk away. He was leaving, and I wasn’t doing anything to stop him.
“I miss you,” I blurted out.
He halted but didn’t turn to face me.
I’d hurt him, I realized.
“Boxer?”
“What?”
“Will you please turn around?”
He turned slowly.
I stepped down off the picnic table and walked toward him, my heart drumming in my ears. Instead of looking up and peering into his eyes, I moved closer—close enough to press my cheek to his chest.
I inhaled an apprehensive breath, smelling the woodsmoke of the fire on his clothes, the scent of cologne on his skin.
“You saw me. The real me,” I said quietly. “And I didn’t know how to handle it.”
He dropped the bottle of bourbon, which splashed on the grass, and then his arms were around me, rough. “God, woman.” Boxer grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my head back so he could look into my eyes. “You just…”
“What?”
Instead of finishing his thought, his lips took mine in a hungry kiss. He tasted of bourbon and sin, of want and remorse. Boxer dragged me closer, so I was flush against him. Just as his tongue thrust into my mouth, I heard a chorus of cheers, whistles, and claps.
Boxer pulled back, shot me a wink, and then wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “You’re not cold?”
“A little.”
He released me, but only so he could take my hand. And then he was dragging me toward the clubhouse.
The cheers and whistles resounded again, but I was too focused on Boxer to pay attention.
He all but hauled me up the stairs to the second floor. We walked down the hallway, and he pushed opened a door before flipping on the light. It was a small bedroom with just enough space for a queen-sized bed flush against one wall and a narrow three-drawer dresser on the other.
“You don’t live here, do you? There’s not even a bathroom.”
“Bathroom is down the hall,” he explained, shutting the door. “And no, I don’t live here. It’s my clubhouse room, where I crash if I don’t want to ride my bike home. I used to have a room on the first floor, but I gave it to Rachel and Reap.”
“Why?”