Micky’s annoyed look becomes concerned as his gaze skates up and down my body. “Are you okay?”
I fall apart. I slam the mug down on the counter and cover my face with my hands and blubber like a dramatic female. I never cry. Not ever. Not even when I know it would be appropriate for me to shed a tear, like at the end of the soppiest movies, or when my mum got all emotional when I left for university.
I. Just. Do. Not. Cry.
“Whoa!” Micky’s on me in a flash, his strong arms circling my shoulders and cuddling me. I don’t think he’s ever had to do this, except maybe once when we were fifteen and my rabbit died. “What’s happened, Annie? Tell me.”
“Nothing,” I sob, shaking my head into him. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This is utterly ridiculous, but I can’t shake the flashbacks, nor can I forget the incredible feelings Jack evoked. It’s crazy, and it’s so fucking frustrating.
Micky kisses my head a few times before pulling me out of his chest and looking down at my tear-stained cheeks. “Did he do something to you?”
“No,” I assure him. “It was just…” I pause, not sure how to word it. “Intense. I don’t know. Some stupid connection. Chemistry. Whatever you want to call it.” I brush my face off, sniff back my stupid, uncalled-for emotion, and laugh. “Jesus, we seriously packed some alcohol away last night, didn’t we?”
Micky laughs quietly and thumbs over his shoulder to the kitchen door, where Lizzy is beyond. “We definitely did.”
I roll my eyes. I know that face. That’s his why-the-fuck-did-I-do-that? face. I only hope Lizzy is as regretful as Micky and there’s no awkwardness between us all. “I need coffee,” I sigh, holding up my mug. “Please make me coffee.”
“I’ll make you coffee,” he agrees, taking the mug and patting my arse as I turn to open the door.
I head for the couch and my hidden friend, landing on the edge and squishing her feet, though she doesn’t murmur a sound or move a muscle. “You know, you’ll still be on my couch in my apartment with Micky in the kitchen, no matter how long you hide under there.”
Quiet.
I poke the sheets, where I expect her head to be.
No movement.
Rolling my eyes, I grab the blanket and yank it back, exposing Lizzy…who is stark naked.
“Hey!” she yells, reclaiming the blanket and pulling it back.
“Sorry!” I chuckle. “But it’s nothing I haven’t seen before, and now it’s nothing Micky hasn’t seen before.”
She arranges the material beneath her chin, peeking at me out of the corner of her eye as she faffs and fiddles, making a long-arse job of it. “Are you mad at me?” she pouts.
I shake my head, reclining back. How can I be? She’s grieving. “You’re a silly twat.”
“I know.” Her agreement is easy. “So.” She cocks her head. “What happened?”
I don’t look at her, afraid she might see the entire illicit encounter in my eyes. “I had a drink with him.”
“Potential?”
“No.” I laugh, but it fades as I fall into thought.
Micky walks in and hands me my giant mug, giving me a look. I shrug and take my coffee as he hands Lizzy hers.
“Ladies,” he says, trotting back off to the kitchen. I fear the worst when Lizzy’s eyes follow his arse all the way. I can’t blame her. He has a great arse. And back. And stomach. And legs.
“Then why the tears?” she asks, returning her attention to me.
“I’m tired,” I mumble. “Hung over, hungry, and in need of caffeine.” I slurp my coffee ravenously, hearing my phone ringing from my room. The thought of engaging my muscles to get up from the couch is enough of a reason to stay put. So I let it ring off. Ten seconds later, Lizzy’s fishing through her purse to find hers. She looks at the screen and tosses it across the couch to me, and I catch Nat’s name glowing threateningly up at me. I look at Lizzy. She looks smug. “I might have mentioned a man when we dropped her home in the cab.”
Great. “Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask moodily. “Don’t you think she’s gonna want your dirt?” I point to the kitchen and Lizzy dives beneath the blankets again.
“Hello.” I sound bright and chirpy.
“Spill it, Ryan. And where the fuck is Lizzy?”
“Nothing to spill,” I reply robotically, deciding that I’m never going to speak of it again. Never. “I had a drink with him.” That’s it, and when Micky looks through to me and smiles, I know my secret will be safe with him. “And Lizzy stayed on my couch.”
“With?”
“No one.” I lie again. I can’t drop Micky in it now. Nat won’t be impressed.
“Where’s Micky?”
“Home, I guess.” I’m on a roll, but just when I think I might have got him off the hook and saved him lectures from Nat, he trips on nothing and sends his coffee flying.
“Bastard!” he yells, jumping around the kitchen. “Motherfucker, that’s fucking hot!”
I slump on the couch. “Home, you guess?” Nat asks tiredly. “I’m on my way over. Seriously! What the fuck have you lot been up to?”
“Bring Starbucks!” I yell, just as she hangs up.
*
We slob out all day. Spread all over my lounge, we watch trash television and eat hangover food. It’s a clean sweep of hurting heads. As I sit on the couch, wedged at the end, my feet dangling over Micky’s shoulders where he’s sitting on the floor below me, I become more and more frustrated by my inability to empty my head of the events from last night. I don’t know how many times I go over it. Over and over, again and again, until I decide I need some air.
I slip out of my apartment quietly into my courtyard garden, breathing some sense into myself. Or at least trying to. I ponder what time he might have woken up. I wonder what he might have thought. I wonder if he was relieved that I was gone, or whether he was disappointed. The questions drive me positively mad.
A one-night stand. That’s all. I know how they work. But with a man I’d talked to for half an hour? And in a hotel? And without protection? I must have lost my mind. But something about Jack made it easy to lose. He stripped me of sense. Had me surrendering to him. It’s so unlike me, and what’s more, all this fucking picking things to pieces is unlike me, too.
I look up to the sky. I left that hotel room for a reason. Problem is, I don’t know what that reason was. I was out of there like a shot, my instinct kicking in and backing me up. It would be easy to accept if there was nothing there for me—no spark, no connection, no chemistry. But there was a spark. There was chemistry. There was a deep, inexplicable connection. And it scared me. It’s the only explanation for me running.
“Get…a…fucking…grip…woman,” I say slowly, slapping the ball of my palm into my forehead. Leaving before he woke was the best decision. No morning awkwardness. No wondering what comes next. Simple. So why my mind is trying to make this a tattered mess of complication is beyond me.