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She’d left him.
They’d made love until three a.m. At least.
But when Alex had awoken at seven a.m., there was no sign of her, save for the faint smell of her floral perfume and a satiated feeling his body hadn’t felt in way too long.
Sex with Emma was the best sex he’d had in a long while.
Maybe ever.
And yet . . . she’d left. Snuck out as though she were merely some sort of late-night bootie call.
A thought hit Alex as he grumpily scooped coffee into his French press and he froze. What if he’d been the bootie call?
Emma hadn’t been drunk, but she’d been plenty plied with champagne. Enough to make her mellow enough to dance with him.
Enough to make her come home with him? Was that why she’d slept with him?
No. That didn’t feel right. She’d been a little buzzy earlier in the evening; they all had. But he’d gone to college with Emma. He knew what drunk Emma looked like, and last night wasn’t it.
But it still didn’t explain why she’d left.
Alex changed into his running gear while waiting for the coffee to steep, only to belatedly realize that this wouldn’t be his usual Sunday morning routine. Typically he and Mitchell met every Sunday at Columbus Circle to do a long run around the park; they would occasionally be joined by Julie, who’d do a “short run,” aka, a “hot dog vendor” run.
But neither Mitchell nor Julie would be showing up for a run the day after their wedding. Obviously.
Alex tied his shoes, before standing and rolling his shoulders.
No big deal. He’d run alone. He’d done so plenty of times before. He didn’t need Mitchell. Or Julie.
He certainly didn’t need Emma and her hoity-toity, sneak-out-in-the-middle-of-the-night—
Hell.
Alex was in deep shit if he was resenting a woman for not wanting to stick around for the awkward morning after. Especially a woman with whom he had a rather disastrous history.
Of course she didn’t want to stick around and do pancakes and coffee.
Alex couldn’t blame her.
And yet . . .
He wished she were here.
She should be here.
Maybe it was the result of too many fantasies made by his twenty-something-year-old self, back when he thought he’d have a lifetime of breakfasts with Emma, but he couldn’t shake the feeling they were supposed to be spending Sunday morning together.
Alex swore as he poured coffee into his mug, took a sip while it was still too hot, burned his mouth, and starting swearing all over again.
He set the glass back down with a clank, bracing his arms on the counter as he hung his head and tried to figure out what the hell had crawled up his ass and pissed him off.
He tried to tell himself it was lack of sleep.
And oversleeping—he was normally an early riser. Or maybe it was the fact that he’d forgotten his Sunday morning run would be out of whack for the next month or so while Mitchell was in honeymoon phase.
Then Alex tried to blame it on the fact that the day before had been a long one spent running interference with Mitchell’s uptight relatives, wearing a penguin suit, and watching as a half dozen guys that were not him dance with Emma.
His head snapped up.
