Chapter 74
Lance
She wasn't that drunk in the restaurant.
That was my first thought as Serena stumbled on the curb outside, her weight suddenly pressing against my side with enough force that I had to brace myself to keep us both upright. Her hand clutched at my arm, fingers digging into the fabric of my coat as she tried to find her balance on heels that suddenly seemed too high.
"Careful," I said, my free hand automatically moving to steady her waist.
"M'fine," she mumbled, but the slight slur in her voice suggested otherwise.
I opened my mouth to tell her to stand up straight, to pull herself together, to stop leaning on me like I was her personal support beam. The words were right there, sharp and cold the way they should be—the way they needed to be to maintain the distance I'd been so carefully constructing between us.
Then she tilted her head up to look at me.
Her face was flushed, cheeks painted that particular shade of pink that only came from good wine and poor decisions. Her eyes were slightly unfocused but still bright, catching the streetlights in a way that made them look almost luminous. A few strands of hair had escaped whatever styling she'd done earlier, falling across her forehead in a way that was entirely too charming.
The reprimand died on my tongue.
"You have terrible alcohol tolerance," I heard myself say instead, the words coming out rougher than I'd intended. "Why did you drink so much?"
"Wasn't that much," she protested, even as she let more of her weight settle against my shoulder. "Just... celebrating."
"Celebrating what, exactly? Your plan to bankrupt yourself acquiring a failing company?"
She laughed—actually laughed—the sound soft and unguarded in a way I'd rarely heard from her. "You're so mean when you're worried."
"I'm not worried. I'm practical."
"Liar." She poked my chest with one finger, and I had to fight the absurd urge to catch her hand. "You're worried. About me. It's sweet."
Sweet. When was the last time anyone had called me sweet? Never, probably, because I wasn't. I was calculating, strategic, occasionally ruthless when necessary. But standing here with Serena Vance using me as a human crutch, looking up at me with that wine-flushed face and that stupidly trusting expression, I felt something in my chest constrict in a way that was anything but practical.
"Come on," I said, guiding her toward where Vincent had pulled the car up to the curb. "Let's get you home before you say something else you'll regret tomorrow."
"Don't regret anything," she mumbled against my shoulder. "Told you the truth. You are good. Best thing that's happened to me in... in forever."
Christ.
I helped her into the backseat, making sure she didn't hit her head on the doorframe—a genuine concern given her current coordination level. She collapsed against the leather seats with a satisfied sigh, and I slid in beside her, pulling the door shut with perhaps more force than necessary.
"Second time in a decade I've seen you escort a lady home, sir," Vincent observed, his tone carefully light as he pulled into traffic. "Quite the milestone."
I shot him a warning look through the rearview mirror. "Don't start."
"I'm merely making an observation—"
"Then stop observing," I said curtly. "Just drive."
"Of course, sir." His lips twitched with barely suppressed amusement, but he had the good sense to fall silent.
The car pulled smoothly into traffic, and for approximately thirty seconds, I thought we might make it through this ride in relative peace. Then Serena shifted, turning to face me with that same unfocused but intense gaze.
"You know what's funny?" she said, not waiting for me to answer. "Every time I drink too much, you're there. Last time. This time." She waved her hand vaguely. "S'like the universe is trying to tell me something."
"The universe is trying to tell you to stop drinking," I said flatly.
"No." She shook her head, the movement making her sway slightly. "It's telling me that when I drink, I should find you. Because you always... you always take care of me."
Her hand landed on my thigh—not provocatively, just carelessly, the way drunk people touched things without thinking about it. But the contact sent a jolt through me nonetheless, and I had to consciously stop myself from reacting.
"Serena—"
"You have nice legs," she observed, her fingers drumming absently against my knee. "Very muscular. Do you work out?"
"Yes. Now stop—"
"Shame about all these clothes," she murmured, her hand sliding higher up my thigh with alarming deliberation. "Hiding everything. Such a waste..."
I caught her wrist gently but firmly, moving her hand back to her own lap. "You need to stop drinking," I said, keeping my voice level despite the heat creeping up my neck. "You told me yourself—you have work to do. A company to acquire. Twenty million in debt to somehow address." I paused, watching her face. "I still don't know how you plan to get that kind of capital."
She waved her free hand dismissively, the gesture so confident and careless that I almost believed her. "I'll figure it out. Twenty million—that's nothing. Totally doable."
From the driver's seat, Vincent made a sound that might have been a cough or a laugh. "Miss Vance is very optimistic when she's been drinking," he observed. "It's quite charming."
I shot him a look in the rearview mirror that promised consequences if he continued that line of commentary. He smiled, unrepentant, and focused on the road.
"If you find yourself short on capital," I said, turning back to Serena, "I could arrange financing. A loan, or—"
"No." The word came out sharp, cutting through her drunken haze with surprising clarity. She pulled her hand from my grip, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't want that. I don't want to be... to be like I was for three years. Someone who depends on a man for everything. Someone people look at and think, 'oh, she's only successful because of him.'" Her eyes, slightly unfocused as they were, burned with genuine conviction. "I need to do this myself, Lance. I need people to know I did it myself."
Despite everything—the situation, the inappropriateness, the sheer insanity of having this conversation while she was half-drunk in my car—I felt something warm bloom in my chest. Pride, maybe. Or respect. Or something more dangerous that I wasn't ready to name.
"You're half-drunk and you're still this stubborn?" I asked, and I couldn't quite keep the amusement out of my voice.
"Not stubborn," she mumbled, but her eyes were already starting to drift closed. "Determined. S'different."
Her head tilted, searching for a comfortable position, and before I could think better of it, I found myself guiding her down to rest against my lap. She went easily, curling onto her side with a small sigh of contentment that did absolutely nothing to help my current state of mind.
I shrugged out of my coat, draping it over her like a blanket. She made a small, pleased sound and burrowed deeper into the fabric.
"Sir—" Vincent began, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
I gave him a look that could have frozen steel. "Drive."
His smile widened—the bastard was enjoying this. "We're heading to Miss Laurent's apartment, I assume? Miss Vance's friend?"