Rules of Engagement

And here I am, a twenty-eight-year-old man who’s so fucked up his agent thinks finding him the perfect wife will save him from himself.
I’m only going along with it because I don’t have the heart to tell him that ship’s already sailed.
That ship has fucking sunk.

“Now I think maybe you should walk me to the door, because unless gravity is doing something funny and the house is supposed to be tilting like that, I’m very tipsy.”
Closing one eye, she squints at her front door.
“I told you drinking all that whiskey so fast was bad.”
“Don’t be smug, Sparky. It’s not a good look on you.”
“Sparky?” . . .
“Don’t tell me no one’s ever called you that before. It’s the low-hanging fruit of nicknames for you.” . . .
“Even if someone did call me that, they wouldn’t have the balls to say it to my face.”. . .
“Guess my balls must be pretty big then, huh?”
“Massive.” . . .
“Can you walk or do I need to carry you?”
“Psh. Carry me. As if.”
She takes a step, loses her footing, and squawks, grabbing hard onto my arm. “Why is the ground all slippery?”
“That’s not the ground, Pink,” I say, chuckling. “Up you go.”
In one swift motion, I lean over, pick her up, and swing her into my arms.
She’s horrified for all of about two seconds, stiff and outraged, then she says, “Well, hell,” and slings her arms around my shoulders. Her smile is wide and happy as she relaxes against me. “Home, Jeeves.”
I take a moment to examine her fuzzy gaze. “You don’t really drink whiskey, do you?”
“Lord, no. That stuff tastes like gasoline. How can you stand it?”
“Because I’m so manly.”
“Oh, right. I forgot. Are we going to stand here in the driveway all day? Not that I’m complaining. This is surprisingly comfortable. If the football thing doesn’t pan out for you, you could start a business carrying tipsy ladies around.” . . .