“I can’t leave my ol’ lady asleep on the floor now, can I?” he asks, pulling the duvet over me.
“Don’t be kind to me. I’ve been a bitch to you,” I say, closing my eyes.
“You could never be a bitch to me,” he whispers, brushing my hair away from my face. “Now, get some rest. I love you.” He kisses me on my head tenderly before turning off the light and leaving. His words ring out as I drift off into a drunken sleep.
Clay
I’ve never seen Belle in a state like that before. She looked so carefree dancing with Red and Rochelle, I’d watched as she grinded her hips like she had no worries in the world. I initially thought it would be the perfect opportunity to speak with her, so I followed her upstairs. I’m glad I did, because I heard her fall over. Red’s words played on repeat in my head—I can’t be like Liam. I can’t take advantage of her drunken state to get what I need in that moment.
She was shouting to him in the dark, and it made me realise that she needs to talk to me on her own terms. I can’t be selfish, but I also can’t let the woman I’ve come to love sleep on the bedroom floor.
I knock gently on the bedroom door. It’s lunchtime, and she hasn’t risen yet, and I can’t deny I’m a little worried. The door creaks open as I peer around the small opening.
“Belle,” I call out.
“Go away,” she groans, throwing a cushion towards the door. It lands short of her target,me.
“I’ve brought you coffee,” I offer in the hope she’ll accept my gesture as a peace offering.
“Leave the coffee and go,” she snaps, pulling the duvet up over her head. I push the door open fully. Making my way over to the bed, I place the cup on the nightstand and take a seat on the edge.
“I said go,” she grunts, turning her back to me, her head still firmly hidden.Well, at least she’s talking to me.I’d say that is an improvement. I take two paracetamols out of my pocket and leave them next to her coffee. I rest my hand on the duvet over her back, and she pulls away as if my touch burns her.
“I’m downstairs if you need me.” I sigh, getting up and leaving. Closing the door, I stand outside like some crazed stalker, struggling with that inner voice telling me to just tell her how this shit is, and that she’s mine whether she likes it or not.
I hear her shuffling and then moan in satisfaction as she takes that first sip of coffee like she always does, I rest my head against the door.Fuck.
“I can still hear you,” she shouts through the closed door.
I’ve given her a couple hours, but she still hasn’t appeared. And she hasn’t eaten. Eventually, I cave and take her a sandwich. This time, I don’t bother knocking. I just walk in and set the tray on the bed beside her.
She sits up slowly, watching me with wary eyes, as if she’s weighing every possible reaction before she makes a move. Her stomach betrays her with a loud rumble, the smell of baconcurling through the room and closing the distance between us better than words ever could.
“I thought you might be hungry,” I mutter, taking the plate off the tray and handing it to her. She takes it.
“You need to stay hydrated too,” I add, passing her a bottle of water.
She shakes her head. “I’m fine,” she says, eyeing the sandwich. “Thank you.” She takes a bite and groans in satisfaction, covering her mouth with her hand. “Sorry.”
“Make sure you drink that water.” I nod towards the bottle.
“Clay, I’m not a child. I’ve had a hangover before,” she mutters, rolling her eyes as she takes another bite. A drip of ketchup slides down her chin, and without thinking, I grab a napkin and wipe it away. She jolts, rushing to snatch the napkin from my hand. Her fingers brush mine, just a fraction of a touch, and the spark is instant. Sharp.Familiar.Her eyes lift to mine, and I know she felt it too.
Slowly, I let my hand fall back to my side. She clenches the napkin in her fist, her jaw tight, frustration radiating off her. She’s annoyed, not atme, but at the fact I still get under her skin.
“It’s my duty to care for you now.”
“Should’ve thought about that before you announced it to the club instead of me,” she spits, putting the sandwich back on the plate. She scrunches the napkin and places it on top of the half-eaten sandwich.
“Drink,” I order, and she frowns. Placing the plate back on the tray. “I’m not leaving this room till you’ve had a drink.”
She lets out a frustrated sigh but opens the bottle and takes a swig. “Happy?” she asks, arching a sassy brow as she fastens the cap back in place. I nod, making my way back to the door.
She leans her head back against the headboard, gripping the bridge of her nose.
“Did you take those paracetamols I left for you?” I ask, my hand resting on the door handle.
“You can leave now,” she replies.
