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We came back to my flat (which is always the case) and now he’s lying in bed in his boxers, his dirty, shoulder-length blond hair mussed, his ankles crossed—phone in his hand.
I’m at the dressing table removing my Christmas makeup which ran down my cheeks during the act of passion we enjoyed, only a few minutes ago. Now he’s on his phone.
I have a bad feeling about what I’m doing and who I’m doing it with, but he’s just so gorgeous. I passed him in the office once—only once—and those chocolate-brown eyes got me. It was a little after that we started occasionally sharing small talk in the kitchen.
Then came the emails. And the subtle request for my personal number. He did all the chasing and I fell for it all, hook, line and sinker. Not only was I hurting still, but it was so nice to be pursued—and I was sucked in. That was three months ago.
I’m not exactly delighted that tonight will be the last time I see him before we return to work on January third. He’s visiting his family in Buckinghamshire for the season, he says. I’m a bit annoyed he never asked me along. I’m also disgusted with myself for lying to him.“Of course, yeah. I’m going to travel and spend the main days with my dad in Luton. Will miss you, though.”
He grunts as he’s typing out messages or emails or whatever it is he’s doing, both thumbs flying across the screen of his iPhone.
Unlike Albie, Miles is not shabby in the slightest. I mean, he has a lot of hair on his head, and a full beard, but the rest of him is sculpted to perfection. Not one tattoo, blemish or hair on his chest or abs. He’s gym honed and has the goods. Plus, he’s got quite the hidden talent… and I suppose that’s why I keep on with this, even though the red flags have been flying high for quite a while now.
“What does your mum cook on Christmas day?” I throw it out there. Why not, eh?
“Umm, what?” he asks absently.
“Christmas Day. Who cooks? What do you have?”
“Oh…” He rubs his nose. “Dad cooks one of those three bird things. He’s a dab hand.”
Unlike Albie, Miles is also really well-to-do. His father owns a tech company, mother is a headteacher, elder brother is a teacher, too… and he’s a senior executive at the PR firm we work for. Yep, the suits kinda did it for me, too.
Sucker, huh?
“What about you?” he continues to speak without looking at me. “What will you be feasting on?”
I could lie and say, “Yeah, my father does all the cooking, too.A dab hand.”
“I’m a pretty good cook. I do a mean turkey.” It’s not exactly a lie. I will be cooking. Just here, that’s all. For me and Kallie. She split up with her girlfriend. At one point there was even talk of us becoming flatmates again, just so I’d know she was safe and cared for. She took it all pretty damn hard. Thankfully she’s on the mend and neither of us can stomach a visit home this year, not with everything that’s gone on. We want PJs, and to start drinking at breakfast, then we want presents all day long. Ones we’ve given to ourselves. Because we have to love ourselves (we keep spouting that crap even though neither one of us actually fucking believes it).
He snorts softly. “I knew you’d be good in the kitchen.”
“Yeah, how?”
He looks up at me with those dark, devilish eyes, shrugging. “Just knew. Warm woman, warm heart and soul… good cook.”
I’ve no idea if to take that as a compliment or a backhanded comment on the fact that I am, in fact, not a stick insect. Sure, I lost a stone when he who shall not be named walked out of my flat, and seemingly, my life. I put it back on quickly though when I started working for HypoChrissy PR, named after our boss. You guessed it, Chrissy. Kind of works though, right? I’d like to say it was happiness that helped me put the weight back on, but it’s been endless late nights and early mornings. More time I’m awake, means, inevitably, more eating. More stress? More eating. More gadding about town and work lunches/dinners/drinks… Yep, a lot more calories!
I suppose you could say I’m really just my natural weight right now. Two weeks straight of living off cereals and long-life milk can shed what a girl was designed to wear. That is, killer curves.
I’ve only just managed to take off the all-day lipstick and the stubborn, dark wintertime eye makeup and blush I was wearing earlier, having known there would be Christmas drinks today and no doubt drive-thru nookie too, when I spot out of the corner of my eye as he slides his phone onto the nightstand and pulls an awkward expression.
“You gotta go,” I say, to avoid the discomfort. “It’s fine.”
It isn’t, but…
“If it’s any consolation, I really don’t want to. But Dad wants to shoot in the morning. So I’ll need to get a train tonight.” He stands and beckons me closer.
I’m in the delicate babydoll I bought a little while ago; the black one with red detail. Kind of festive. He never gets dressed after sex until he’s actually going, and I always feel flannel pyjamas or my Minnie Mouse nightshirt don’t really cut it as post-coital attire. Nor do I wish to pull on bra and knickers again, not when he leaves me sweaty and panting.
Miles is very tall and my eyes only come up to his pecs, so as he hugs me, I feel like I am being crushed into the chest of a giant. He kisses my hair and a part of me holds my breath, waiting for him to say, “You know, I could cut short my trip home and come back here for New Year…”
I know that will never come. Deep down, I’m aware what this is.
More than aware, actually.
He suddenly picks me up and drops me onto the bed nearby. “Can’t resist one more go.”
