“I’m sorry.” I fumble the words out, embarrassed, my eyes hit my fingers in my lap, and I twist at the hem of my very short dress.

Great way to show the man who hurt you that you’re so in control and worth every inch of fight to get you back. Especially when you drunk dial him, need his rescue, and then throw up at his feet.

Classy, Emma … just classy.

“Don’t be, I’m glad I was the one there to take care of you. It was a drunk Emma I’ve never met before.” His eyes linger this time and I can feel them boring into me a little...