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“You didn’t kill her, did you?” Preston’s voice came through the phone, sharp and laced with that overprotective sarcasm he always reserved for anything involving his sister.
I let out a short, humorless laugh, licking my lips as I waited at the counter for the hangover meds. “She almost killed me,” I muttered, drumming my fingers against the edge of the counter. My mind was still replaying the scene in the bathroom—her towel slipping, the way she looked at me like she was daring me to do something I couldn’t.
Preston didn’t laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” I said, exhaling hard through my nose, “that you sent her to my place, drunk off her ass, and expected me to deal with it. What the hell are you doing, Preston?”
“I’m making sure she doesn’t humiliate he
