“Do you give anyone anything they ask for?” he asked.

“Not anymore,” she said. “I’m on a break from doing that. Your dad just really needed the ride, and I’m not driving tonight anyway, so—” She hiccuped and covered her mouth. “Excuse me.”

Still holding on to her, Sam peered down at her, a very small smile on his lips now. “You’re shit-faced.”

“Nope.” Although there did seem to be two of him. . .Which was nice since both of him were smiling all sexy-like. “I’m not shit-faced. I don’t get shit-faced. I don’t drink.”

Olivia lifted the two bottles of wine they’d decimated. Both empty.

“Who drank those?” Becca asked her.

“That would be us,” Olivia said, and laughed. “Sexy Surfer’s right, babe. We’re shit-faced. We’ve gotta hit the sack, we both have to work early tomorrow.”

“Huh,” Becca said. She went to jab a finger at one of the two Sams in front of her, but missed. “Huh,” she said again.

Sam was still grinning. “Need help getting home and to bed?”

“No!” she said at the exact same time that Olivia said “Yes!”

Becca whirled on Olivia to give her a very dirty look, but her world began to spin, and didn’t stop. “Uh-oh,” she whispered, and would’ve slithered to the floor again except that Sam hooked an arm around her waist. It was a really great forearm, too, all tanned and corded with strength. But it was the big, warm hand that landed just beneath her breast that really grabbed her attention.

“Here’s her key,” she heard Olivia say, and then her world was upside down because Sam had hoisted her up and over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold, his arm wrapped around the backs of her thighs.

“Hey,” she said to his ass. His very fine ass.

“Hay’s for horses,” Olivia said cheerfully, whacked Becca’s ass, and opened the front door.

“Hey,” Becca said again.

But she was talking to no one. Well, other than Sam’s ass, of course.

“So romantic,” Olivia said on a sigh.

Still upside down, Becca tried to imagine Sam being romantic. But she couldn’t picture him giving a woman roses. “Do you?” she asked.

“Do I what?”

“Do you ever bring your women roses?”

“I’m not exactly a flowers type,” he said. “But I do have the popcorn.” He rattled the tin with his free hand.

The truth was, Becca would rather have popcorn any day of the week over roses. She might even have said so, but her world was spinning even more now, so she squeaked, slammed her eyes shut, and held on for dear life. And what she held on to was his butt—with both hands—earning her a chuckle from the guy who owned the butt. He balanced her and the popcorn with ease while unlocking her front door. Kicking the door closed, he strode across the open space, bypassing her bathroom, and dumped her on the bed.

She sat up, blew the hair out of her eyes, and focused on him standing there, hands on hips, looking sexy as all hell. “Come here,” she said.

“You feeling sick?”

“No.” She tugged him down over the top of her and pressed her face into that male throat she loved so much and inhaled him deep.

“Becca, I need a shower.”

“Oh, boy,” she said. “I’ve heard this story before.”

He snorted, then rolled off the bed. She blinked as he leaned over her and pulled off her sandals. “Whatcha doing?”

“Putting you to bed,” he said.

“But I thought you were going to shower and then do me.”

He went still a moment, then tipped back his head and laughed. The sight was so beautiful she just stared at him for a long moment. “Wow,” she breathed. “You’re so damn pretty. Does Lucille know? She should pin pics of you in your board shorts, the blue ones that have the white stripe down the side, the ones that show off your butt, all over her Pinterest.”

“If you suggest that to her, I’ll. . .” He paused.

“What?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I can’t think of anything that wouldn’t leave you scarred for life.” He reached for the hem on her sweatshirt. “Lift up.”

“Please,” she said. “You mean lift up please.”

He gave her an alpha look and she lifted up, and then the sweatshirt vanished, leaving her in a cami top and a gauzy skirt.

He stared down at her, scrubbed a hand over his jaw, muttering something to himself about “being a f**king saint,” and then he tugged down the blankets. “Get in,” he said.

“Okay.” She scrambled in, then waited for him to climb in as well. He didn’t. “Hey,” she said when he tugged the blankets up to her chin. “What are you doing?”

“Putting you to bed,” he repeated, not quite as patiently now.

In fact, he was sounding downright strained.

“Without you?” she asked, confused.

“Without me. Becca, you’re not paying attention to me.”

Yes, she was. That was always the problem. She looked down at herself. “I’m still dressed.”

“Yeah,” he said, and again ran a hand over his rough jaw, which made a very male sound that turned her on even more. “I don’t trust myself with you undressed.”

“I do,” she said.