“You little evil genius. I love you for this,” I say, kissing her head as her eyes fight to stay open.

“That’s the only reason you love me?” she asks, her lids finally closing completely as she pulls in tightly against my chest.

“Sweetheart, your pranking skills are merely the tip of the iceberg,” I say, kissing her head and swinging her up in my arms for a better grip.

She dozes off for most of the walk home, but the elevator ride somehow registers with her, and by the time we make it to our floor, I have to rush her to the bathrooms. “Just a few more feet, hang on,” I say, rushing into the women’s restroom, hoping like hell no one is in there. Thankfully, the floor seems empty for the night, so I rush her down to the big handicapped stall at the end and get her to the toilet right in time for pretty much everything she drank tonight to come rushing out.

“Ooooooh god, this…this is awful,” she says, laying her face on the rim of the toilet.

“I know. That’s another first…maybe I should have warned you. Your first time getting drunk is usually followed by your first post-drinking vomit-fest,” I laugh, looking under the stall door to make sure the bathroom is still empty. “Hang on, I’ll get some wet towels. And you should probably not put your face on that…I doubt it’s clean.”

“Yeah…but I sorta don’t care,” she says, her voice barely able to project.

I pull the paper towel dispenser open and grab a good handful from the metal before pushing it closed again. I run them all under cold water and carry them, sopping wet, back to Rowe, who has somehow slid down to completely lie on the small-tiled floor.

“That’s one of those firsts I don’t care to repeat,” she mumbles.

“Yeah, I know. I said that too. But then, I did it again,” I admit, as I lift her up into my lap and smooth her hair away from her face. She’s covered in a light sweat, and I can tell she has the chills by the tiny bumps all over her arms and neck. “Here, let me see your face.”

She tilts her face to me, but her eyes are almost glued shut. She’s seconds away from passing out, and as bad as this sounds, she’s beautiful—even like this. I take a handful of the wet towels and run them over her forehead, cheeks and neck, trying to cool her and make her feel less like a speed-race of bile just cleared her lips.

“There, that any better?” I ask, and she moans, her mouth too weak to fully frown. “You think you need to do that…again?” I lean my head toward the toilet, and Rowe cracks one eyelid open long enough to see before closing it again. She shakes her head no, bringing her hands to her mouth to wipe again. “Okay, come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

Rowe’s legs are sexy as hell, but carrying them drunk has me wishing she were five-foot-two instead of the extra six or seven inches she is. Lifting her body from the floor is tough, probably because she’s not helping. Like…at all. I nearly jar her head into the doorway of the women’s shower room as we leave, and when the small mousy girl from down the hall exits the elevator and catches us, she blushes.

“She got a little carried away tonight,” I whisper, and she smiles and rushes back to her room.

It takes me a few seconds to get the keys from my pocket and unlock our door, but I finally do. Rowe manages to sit up at the edge of my bed, and I pull her shoes off first, then the long baseball socks she had on with her costume. “You want one of my shirts?” I ask, working the buttons of her shirt off until I get to see the entire bra that has been teasing me for most of the night. Well f**k. This night could have gone so differently.

“Can I have your green one?” she asks, and I head to the closet to begin sifting through my hangers.

“You mean gray? I don’t have a green one,” I say, finding the long-sleeved shirt she usually sleeps in and flipping off the light before I shut the closet door behind me.

“No, the green Boston one…with the Red Sox logo on the front,” she says, pulling her arms from her bra and laying back against my sheets, letting out a big breath while her body sinks deeply into the blankets scrunched up around her.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that shirt is in your head. Come on, give me your arms—I got your favorite gray one,” I say, lifting her body enough to pull my shirt over her head and down her arms and body. I tug her pants from her legs, and she crawls up to the head of my bed after I drop them to the floor, gathering the entire blanket up in her arms, squeezing it tightly, her face buried and her hair a tangled mess.