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‘No, that’s OK.’ She wrapped sweaty palms round her mug, the hormone bumps coming out to party as if it were 1999 again. ‘I’m good.’
Or as good as I’m gonna get, under the circumstances.
Chapter 11
Sunday mornings suck.
Lizzie grabbed some freshly squeezed OJ from the overstocked fridge to combat the worst case of dry mouth ever.
Especially Sunday mornings when you get woken up by a vodka hangover that would make Vladimir Putin weep.
The zing of citrus cut through some of the fuzz in her throat but not much. Her mouth still felt like Aldo’s hamster had been bedding down by her tonsils. The ache in her head concentrated in her temples as she poured herself a mug of coffee from the pot already percolating. She controlled the whimper of self-pity. Her symptoms were all totally self-inflicted. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been self-inflicted in a good cause, like an all-night rave, but rather were the result of one—or maybe five—too many vodka shots while watching back-to-back episodes of Come Dine with Me on her new iPad last night.
Was there anything more tragic than getting pissed alone while watching some loud-mouthed bank clerk with a comb-over cook pigs’ trotters for three people who couldn’t stand him?
No wonder her mum’s show was such a hit. At least there was proper cooking in it.
Coffee slopped over the lid of the pot as she dumped it back on the hotplate.
Mr Perfecto must be up already. Probably sneaking around being useful. Making coffee and avoiding her. Resentment edged out the self-pity. She wouldn’t have had to barricade herself in her room last night and find her own amusement in the bottom of a vodka bottle if Trey and Aldo hadn’t commandeered the games room to watch the Chelsea match and then finish constructing Stamford Bridge on Minecraft.
Not that she was enough of a loser yet to play with fake digital Lego, but it was the principle of the thing. They’d totally left her out. Trey especially. She might as well have been invisible. He’d spoken to her exactly twice during the match. She’d counted. And only after she’d asked him a direct question.
He’d moved into the room across from Aldo’s on Friday afternoon and after a day and a half of non-stop activities to which she hadn’t been invited she was starting to feel as if she had the Black Death.
She sipped the coffee black, the acrid chicory taste going some way to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth, and began riffling the drawers for her mum’s emergency supply of ibuprofen. What she needed now was drugs and lots of them.
She prised the round pink pills out of their casing and popped three in her mouth. Mr Perfecto himself strolled into the kitchen and then stopped on the threshold. She almost choked on the last pill, then gulped it down with some coffee.
He must have just had his shower. She’d never seen him like this before, fresh and damp and rumpled. His cropped hair flattened against his head in grooves where he’d fingerdried it with a few impatient swipes. The smooth olive skin on his jaw was reddened where he’d shaved.
After pausing on the threshold, he walked into the room, his loose-limbed stride casual but not entirely relaxed. Pronounced pecs stretched the light blue weave of his polo shirt. Clean but worn Levi’s clung to the long muscles of his thighs and hung loose at his lean waist. Those scuffed Nike high-tops padded on the floor in time to the thump of her heartbeat. How could he look good even in that lame shirt?
‘You’re up?’ He didn’t disguise his surprise as he reached for a mug from the cabinet behind her left shoulder. She got a fleeting glimpse of a flat, lightly furred belly when his lame polo shirt rose up. And stored away the knowledge that he had an outie belly button. He lifted the coffee pot and the citrus scent of his shower gel surrounded her. She inhaled before she could stop herself. He smelled delicious, clean and fresh—unlike her.
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ she said, sidestepping away from him to perch on one of the stools that rimmed the breakfast bar. And avoid asphyxiating him with the sour smell that probably clung to her. She crossed her arms under her breasts, embarrassed by the shapeless T-shirt and old boxer shorts she had on—and her complete lack of a bra. Not that she had much to hold up, but her breasts felt heavier than usual all of a sudden.
New rule: No more coming down to breakfast in your rattiest night gear while Mr Perfecto, now also known as Mr Lame-But-Hot, is in residence.
‘Have you got another outing planned for today?’ she asked.
‘The Serpentine. I thought we’d go swimming. My weather app says it’s going to hit the thirties.’
She nodded. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
Why did the fact he had a weather app suddenly seem cute instead of moist, too? She imagined him in swimming trunks and suntan lotion and got light-headed. She had to get an invite—she wasn’t spending another day pondering her crappy life while even her little brother saw more action. And a swim would be one way to blitz her hangover. That or kill her, which, either way you looked at it, would cure the problem. Plus, the one good thing about all the weight she’d
lost when she’d dumped Liam a year ago was her bum looked virtually non-existent in a bikini. ‘Could I come?’
‘Do you want to?’
‘Why not? I haven’t got anything better to do.’ It wasn’t exactly gracious, but then he’d smell a rat the size of Japan if she were too eager.
‘I guess you can. But I’ll check with Aldo that he’s on-board first, before we make a final decision.’
Aldo will do as I tell him. He’s not the boss of me.
‘Don’t worry, Aldo will be on-board if you suggest it. You’re the Aldo Whisperer now,’ she said drily, to cover the spike of anticipation. No need to get too excited. It was only a stupid trip to the Serpentine.
