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“Thinking. Very loudly,” he pauses. “And what’s with the cannon fire outside? Are we under attack?”

“Sorry, but I think the cannons are inside your head,” I whisper, because normal volume might cause my head to shatter.

Jasper grunts, then groans as if the grunt hurt. If his head is anything like mine, it did.

“Without wishing to come across as an arsehole, what happened last night?” He shifts, which draws attention back to the penis pressed against my butt cheek.

I don’t turn to face him. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t need to see whatever my face looks like. Or smell my hangover breath. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

He’s silent for a moment or two, clearly sorting through his memories.

“Donna Summer?”

“Right. Yes. That’s about where I come up blank. Somebody shouted get a room. After that, I’ve got nothing.” I wish the bed would open up and swallow me.

Jasper slowly slides his arm out from where it’s supporting my head, stands, stretches and saunters to the bathroom. I don’t watch. Well, I don’t mean to watch. If I happen to get a glimpse of him, I can hardly be blamed. It’s a tiny room, and he’s not—insignificant—shall we say.

I sit up and tuck the sheet around me, covering my boobs. Okay, he’s already seen it all, I assume, but right now neither of us can remember that. It’s probably pointless, but I finger-comb my hair and run a thumb under my eyes. It comes away covered in mascara flakes. Nice.

The toilet flushes and the tap runs. Jasper comes back out with a towel around his waist, two glasses of water and a foil pack of paracetamol.

“The good news is there are used condoms in the bathroom.” There’s a smug smirk on his face. Which is a new look for him. And can smirks be additionally smug? Or are they smug by nature? Whatever. He’s smirking.

“Did you say condoms? As in, plural?”

“Yes. There appear to be”—he clears his throat—“three.”

“Three?” I squeak. Who’d have thought, as drunk as we were, we could manage it three times. Go us. I guess. But did it really have to be three? And what does that mean? Is it bad luck that we did it three times, or bad luck we can’t remember? Argh.

“Where did we get three condoms?” I know for sure they weren’t mine.

“My wash kit.” Said with a blush. As well it might be. And does a blush have to look quite so good on him?

“You brought three condoms on a work trip?” Was he planning on hooking up with someone? Or were they always intended to be used with me? All the important muscles, the ones that got a good workout last night, the ones that have been somewhat neglected of late, clench.

“Not technically, no. They were left over from my last holiday. I just hadn’t taken them out.” He must see the look of horror on my face. “Don’t worry. I checked the use-by. They’re good.”

I’m not sure if that was my concern, or whether him having three condoms suggests he’s a player. Although, since they weren’t used, perhaps it suggests the opposite. I wonder how many he took with him. If it was a box of thirty, or a strip of six. My head hurts too much to puzzle it out. It’s also none of my damn business. But that doesn’t stop my imagination from running away with me.

He drops a couple of tablets in my hand, and knocks his own back, downing the tiny glass of water in one go.

I sip mine, worried it might bounce right back up if I make any sudden moves. Luckily, it seems to settle gently.

With a wince, Jasper lowers himself gingerly onto the other bed, facing me, and slides a hand through his hair. Which sets off a visceral memory of how it felt under my hands. Two hands. Tangled in his curls. While he, oh sweet Lord. While his head was between my legs.

There’s a long silence as our eyes catalogue each other.

“There’s a love bite. On your …” He waves a hand, not at my neck but lower. I look down. Yes. There’s a love bite on the top curve of my left breast, exposed by the edge of the sheet.

“You have … umm … nail marks.” Red crescents decorate the tops of his shoulders.

“Well, it’s a damn shame neither of us can remember it because the evidence suggests we had a good time.” He runs a gentle hand over the slightly bloody marks.

He’s not wrong. And the little flashes I’m getting, not quite memories, but more than images, confirm it.

There’s another awkward silence.

“I might have a shower.” I put the now-empty glass on the table between the beds, wrap the sheet more firmly around myself and shuffle into the bathroom.