The CEO and Her Driver

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!"