“No, you weren’t.” His lips thinned, and he looked genuinely pissed off now. “You didn’t have more than one drink in you that night. I know you drunk. I know you sober. I know you in every fucking state. Besides, I thought you didn’t want—what was it again?” He looked up, squinting as he tried to remember that night. “A broccoli-haired trust fund baby who makes experimental techno music to take your V-card.” “I was young and impressionable.”
