Guy never knew Chay was a talker.
All through the Uber ride home, Chay filled the vehicle with chaotic, slurred chatter.
"I think women are misunderstood," she declared suddenly.
"What?" His head reeling from the constant change in topic.
"And if I had a puppy, I'd name it Beyoncé. You know…puppy power."
He chuckled aloud. Then leaned his head against the Uber's window and let the soft hum of the city blur behind Chay's rambling. A part of him was fascinated. Another part worried she was going to have a hell of a hang over in the morning.
When they finally pulled up to her apartment, it took them a full two minutes to get out of the car because Chay insisted she had to "say goodbye to the driver."
They staggered toward the door. Guy helped her up, his arm slung around her waist, hers around his neck. It would've been romantic—if they hadn't both smelled like brandy.
