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‘No. It’s...nothing. You need to go to sleep.’
I grunt. ‘Fat fucking chance.’
‘Noah.’ Gabe says my name quietly. ‘If you don’t think she can help, I will find you someone else. I am...concerned for you.’
I expel a harsh breath. I know he’s worried. I’ve gone off the rails lately—even for me. I can see it from his perspective and I can see it’s not fair to him. I hate that I’m doing anything that might cause him pain but, Jesus, this all just happened a month ago and I’m still dealing with it. That’s normal, right?
‘Don’t be.’ Once again, I lift my eyes towards the mezzanine. ‘I’m coping fine.’
* * *
What the hell is that? Why are there blades slicing across my brain? What is that beating of tiny little drums against my nerve endings, making my temples throb with an unbearable pain? Oh, my God, my throat is stinging and... Oh hell. I’m naked.
In a bed that I would put money on belonging to Noah Moore.
Oh, my God.
Did we...? I stare down at my body, my naked body, except I’m still wearing underpants, which surely means...what? What does it mean? I think back to the way he kissed me and touched me in my office, on my desk, and I have no certainty about what has happened here. How can I?
I turn bleary eyes towards the bedside—there is no clock there and I have no idea where my bag and phone are. The best I can do to estimate the time is look out of the window. I reach for the thin, soft blanket at the foot of the bed and wrap it around my shoulders like a cape, planting my feet over the side of the bed and standing gingerly for a moment while I wait for the tectonic plates of my brain to shift back into alignment.
I’m never drinking again.
I tiptoe across the room—I have no idea why I’m being so stealthy—towards the window that’s behind the bed.
London is still dark, the sky a velvet black, the moon a pearlescent glimmer hidden behind leaden clouds. I look back towards the bedroom, needing to take stock of my surroundings.
The bed is a mess, but that doesn’t indicate that Noah was in it with me. I mean, I’m a flippy-floppy sleeper from way back. When Ivy was little, we used to co-sleep, but when she was two she asked to go into her own room because I woke her up so often. With the blanket wrapped firmly around my shoulders and desperately wishing I had some clothes I could put on instead, I take the first step down and then another. My head is throbbing.
No, it’s cracking apart at the seams—emphatically, angrily.
I pause halfway down the stairs and study the apartment below.
It’s less an apartment and more a loft, completely open and barely furnished.
A sofa—flashes of memory return, cemented by the sight of his motorbike helmet discarded carelessly on the floor beside it. A table. An armchair. There’s no TV. No photographs or paintings on the walls, just one big whiteboard down the end with lots of writing on it, and another table in front of it that has several laptops all cabled together.
I have no idea where we are, what part of London, only that we’re near the Thames. I can hear its lifeblood humming close by.
A noise calls my attention and I swivel my head—far too fast, ouch—towards it. Noah is emerging from around the corner, a glass of something that looks like alcohol in his hand. My stomach convulses at the very idea.
Please, please, don’t throw up.
As if he hears my presence, his eyes lift to the mezzanine, landing on me almost instantly, and the tug of desire that swirls through me overtakes almost everything else. Almost, but not quite.
I hold the blanket tighter around me and resume my slow walk of shame, moving downstairs until I’m on the same level as Noah, albeit across the room.
He doesn’t speak, but his face says everything. His face that is part-mocking, part-amusement and with a dash of concern.
‘I...’ What? What can I say to explain the way I wrote myself off? Hardly sophisticated. I wish I could remember what we did when we got back, but alas, my mind is an utter blank. ‘What happened last night?’
It’s still the same night, but he doesn’t correct me. He throws back a glug of whatever he’s drinking, keeping his eyes pinned to me.
‘You don’t remember?’
Oh, God. Did we sleep together? Did I waste my chance of being with Noah by being too drunk to remember it? Did he sleep with me when I was in that state?
‘No.’ I shake my head and then wince—he winces in response, apparently understanding my pain.
