AllFreeNovel
Share Us
How the hell do I face him now?
We need to talk about this…
Noooo. No, no, no. I grimace hard. Think about crying. Drag my sheet over my head and seriously consider living out the rest of my days under here. But any hope of falling back into a nice, safe oblivious sleep is obliterated by the hellish, awful buzz of my door.
Why? Visitors arenotwelcome. Curling into the fetal position, I shove my face into my pillow. But the buzz just keeps on coming in a long brain-paining whine. “Leave me alone.” My yell is pathetic, muffled by my pillow.
Another long buzz.
Fuck my life. I throw my sheets off and drag myself out of bed. Fuck. My. Life.
My legs wobble as I attempt to step into my pajama shorts—because of course—I’m naked. I verbally molested Mylo. Naked. And drunk. And naked? My eyes pop open even wider and I scramble to find my cell amongst the mess of my sheets. Please, God let it have only been verbal. I hold my cell in both hands and swipe open the screen. Click straight to Mylo’s contact and check for discriminating photo messages. Or evidence that we video called. None. I puff out my cheeks, throw the offending cell back onto the bed and press the palms of my hands into my eyes. Okay, bad. But it could be worse.
When the buzzing starts up again, I grab the Beach Hut Tee that’s hanging over the back of my dresser chair. It’s about fifty sizes too big. It doesn’t matter. It isn’t nearly big enough to hold my shame. I shuffle through my apartment to the front door, my fingers pressed against my temples. Useless. There’ll be no reigning in this pain.
“Kenzi’s dead,” I croak down the intercom. “Please call again later.”
“Kenzi darling, you sound worse than Pete did this morning.”
I groan and press my cheek against the cool wall by the door, one eye closed, mouth hanging open like some sort of zombie guppy. “Simon?” Where? What? Why? With my open eye, I glance at the old clock on the wall opposite me. It’s nine in the morning. I have until this afternoon to find my life and figure out how to survive this. That leaves precisely zero time for random visits from my ex-boss’s husband.
“I come bearing breakfast and exciting opportunities.” Simon’s far too chipper voice rattles through the speaker.
“Breakfast?” My tummy rumbles. “You have food? Hold tight, I’m buzzing you up.”
“Oh, my,” Simon whispers, a few minutes later, as he steps through the door. “You look…” He cocks his head and sucks air through his teeth. “Like you could use one of these.” He hands me a cup of greenness.
I don’t even have it in me to be offended. I just peel myself from the wall and stick my bottom lip out. “I’m never drinking again,” I mumble and take the lid off the plastic cup. Raw veg and citrus. The smell is… my stomach rolls. I try to hand it back.
“Just hold your breath and drink it, honey.” He pushes it back to me, then struts right past me and into the kitchen, a box of God-knows-what under his arm. “It will make you better. Trust me.”
I look from the back of Simon’s cerise-pink polo shirt to the box under his arm, then back to the cup of yuck in my hand. Worth a shot. The straw between my lips, I suck until the cup is empty, my stomach lurching the whole time.
In the six or so steps it takes me to get to the kitchen, my insides finally quit trying to take leave of my body and settle enough for the fear to return with a bang—okay, fine—more of a sloppy whine. Whatever. Fuck my life.
I lean my shoulder against the doorframe and watch Simon bumble about my kitchen. “Erm, Simon. Not that I don’t appreciate this, but…”
His grin morphs into a wince when he turns to me. “Sit down, darling. I’ll have you fixed up in no time.” He pulls out one of the high stools from beneath the tiny breakfast bar by the kitchen door and manhandles me onto it, patting the top of my head like some sort of demented gran.
Scraping my knotted hair onto the top of my head, I tie it with the elastic around my wrist as I watch him pull ingredients out of the box on the worktop. “Simon, what exactly are you doing?”
“A little drunk birdie told me.” He turns to grab a pan from the pot rack Mylo may or may not have hung the other night before he fell asleep on my sofa. Whyyyyyyy? Why did I have to phone him?
“Kenzi? You in there?” Simon frowns. Waves a hand in front of my face.
“Yes. Sorry. Drunk birdie told you…?”
“That a certain somebody.” He shoots me a grin. “Will be opening a restaurant in the very near future.”
“Okaaaaay…” I slump back into the chair and massage my temples again, even if my brain was firing on all cylinders, I’d have no idea which dots I’m supposed to be connecting here. “What’s that got to do with you cooking me breakfast?”
“Think of this as stage one of my interview; breakfast with a twist.” He lifts his shoulders, and his grin stretches to maniacal proportions.
I stare at him blankly.
His shoulders drop along with his face. “You’re looking at your brilliant, glamorous and extremely talented new head chef.”
My mouth pops open. “But you work in the hotel.”
