The Virgin Society Collection

36. Coffee After Your Bangover

36

COFFEE AFTER YOUR BANGOVER

Layla

As I pad out of the bedroom, Harlow’s waiting in the kitchen, tapping her foot. The morning sun streams through the windows as Ethan hums while brewing coffee at the counter.

Wearing a tank and sleep shorts—like I am—Harlow stares at me pointedly. “Finally. You’re awake.” It’s said with an over-the-top exaggeration that makes me grin.

I stretch my arms above my head, yawning for effect.

Harlow peers behind me as I join them. “Well, where is he? He did come over last night, right?”

“I’d say someone came over and over, judging from that three a.m. wakeup call,” Ethan says, coughing under his breath as he pours a cup.

I blush. But it’s a proud blush, if such a thing exists. And if it doesn’t, maybe it should. I stretch my neck like I’m working out the kinks, then point at the coffee pot. “Fuel. Need. Now.”

“I thought you might, Miss Do It Again ,” Ethan says, adopting a feminine tone on those last few words.

Now I blush harder. “Shut up. I did not say that.” But I’m lying. I totally demanded a repeat when Nick smacked my ass in the middle of the night.

“Own it, girl,” Ethan says with a smirk.

“And spill it, girl,” Harlow adds, staring with wide eyes but still hunting around for Nick, like she can find him behind me, slinking around the hall, hiding in a cupboard. “Where the F is Mister Storm Into the Club for his Woman?”

The image of Nick hunting me down last night sends fresh tingles to my belly. He told me he went to find me at the club. “I sent him home a couple hours ago. Because of this,” I say, making a circle around the post-mortem crew.

“Because of us? Your besties?” Harlow asks like that’s absurd. But it’s not them, per se. It’s the situation, in all its fragility.

“I thought it would be weird if the four of us were hanging out in the kitchen on a Sunday morning drinking coffee,” I admit.

Harlow scoffs. “That’s the weird part? Coffee after your bangover? Not, say, the fact that it’s already nine and you’ve told me nothing? That’s the weird part, lady. You’re in trouble.”

I laugh, no longer feeling so weird. I take a drink of the fuel and when I set it down, I give them the SparkNotes, trying but failing to wipe a grin off my face as I tell the tale.

“That sounds both hot and emotional. And inspirational. So, I hate you,” Ethan grumbles.

I pat his shoulder. “It was all three. And I can still feel it today.”

“Fuck you too,” he adds, then downs some more coffee.

“But I think Nick and I should return to New York sooner than planned. He wants to go see David. And I should see him too.” I gulp, my stomach swooping with nerves. Nick has to be the one to tell him about us, but I can’t imagine David will be thrilled with me either. “And with Cynthia in the hospital…” I add, and I feel terrible once again about the timing. Terrible too about how to tell my mother, since I’ll need to do that soon too. But I can’t wallow. It’s time to woman up. I fell for someone forbidden. Now, I need to own it for the world to see. That’s how we become un-forbidden. “Anyway, I can catch a train and you two can take my car back anytime. Or we can all leave together, the four of us, but I don’t want to make you go sooner if you want to stay.”

Ethan meets my gaze from across the counter. “Because that would be weird? The four of us in your car?”

“Or the four of us in your car after you begged for his cock last night?” Harlow asks innocently, fluttering her lashes.

Briefly, I’m tempted to cover my face with my hands.

Instead, I square my shoulders. Raise my chin. And own the fuck out of my desires.

I’m womaning up in every way. “It’s a very nice cock.”

They decide to take the train later. Harlow can’t resist a day lounging by the pool, catching up on her art journals and research. Ethan says he has a song to write, and the sea has always been a muse for him.

I don’t even have to give them the use of my home. In a lot of ways, it’s been ours for a long time. They come and go with me, and we loll around like a family.

“Enjoy your Sunday,” I say as I toss my bag into my car.

“We will. And good luck,” Harlow says seriously. “It won’t be easy, but you can do it.”

Nick and I just have to get through today.

I’ve already texted David, letting him know I want to see him and Cynthia this week when she’s up for visitors. David gave me her room number, so I sent flowers to the hospital. Nick did too. She loves dahlias, Nick had said. David told him that one night.

That’s a start, I hope, of showing how much I value my friendship with David.

Ethan drapes an arm around my shoulder. “Try not to worry, babe. I’m sure David will understand. It’s not like the two of you…”

He doesn’t finish though. And there’s no need to. It’s best not to make comparisons about our omissions.

I smile faintly, then say goodbye and hop in the car. I swing by Nick’s friend’s home and pick him up so we can drive together

He holds my hand some of the time as I drive. But he lets go when David texts him as we arrive in Manhattan. When he’s done writing to his son, we’re near my garage. “He’s going to come over this afternoon. For coffee. I’ll talk to him then,” Nick says, his voice calm and capable.

But I can’t even imagine how that conversation will go. “And then you want me to talk to him tomorrow or whenever he can? I want him to know where I was coming from too.”

“Of course,” he says, and he seems so strong, so tough. But would he let on if he was worried? That’s not his style, but I wonder if it will be? As we move forward, will he let me in when the world isn’t going his way?

I go quiet as we grab our bags, and he walks me to my building then into my apartment. Once I shut the door and set down my luggage and phone, he tilts his head to the side, studying me with obvious concern.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say quickly.

“Layla, I can be patient on a lot of things, but on this I’m going to push. What’s wrong? Let me help.”

That’s always his first instinct. Or maybe it’s his love language—helping. He speaks it quite well, since I’m opening up. “I was just wondering. If you had a bad day, would you tell me? Would you turn to me?”

He takes a beat, as if he’s mulling this over. “I think I would.”

“You think?”

“Well, I don’t know. I haven’t had a bad day yet since I came to New York,” he says wryly, then pulls me into his arms. “But I want all of you. I want your heart, mind, and body. And I hope you want all of me. Even if I’m a surly jackass.”

I laugh, looping my arms around his waist. “I doubt you could be a surly jackass.”

He arches a brow playfully, but then he’s dead serious as he asks, “But would you want me if I were one?”

I press a kiss to his lips. A firm, declarative one. “I want to see all of you. Not just sexy, dominant, possessive, Nick.”

“Don’t forget obsessive,” he adds.

“Obsessive, possessive Nick,” I say, liking the sound of that on my tongue.

“You’re my obsession,” he says, in a low, smoky voice. His kiss on my throat tells me how much he likes this obsession.

His growl says he wants to act on it.

But he needs to focus on his son.

I set a hand on his chest. Gently push him away. “Go home. You need to get in the zone. Call me later, okay?”

“Invite me over,” he instructs.

“So bossy.”

“Yes. I want what I want. You . Invite me over tonight,” he says, repeating his demand.

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m not going to tell my son I fell head over heels for his friend and then not see you,” he says dryly.

Head over heels—that’s how my insides feel right now. “Come over tonight.”

Another kiss on my neck. One more on my earlobe. A final one on my lips, chased with a sexy murmur. “I will.”

He leaves, and I lock the door, sighing happily.

But I’m not completely happy.

I won’t be able to relax till we sort this out and make things right.

I fuss around my apartment unpacking but a few minutes later, my phone rings. Figuring it’s Nick calling to say something sweet, I trot over to the living room table and grab my phone. I’m about to say so, you missed me that much when I bite my tongue.

It’s David.

I feel sleazy as I answer with a too-bright, “Hey, you! How’s Cynthia? How’s everything? I can’t wait to tell you all about last ni—the auction,” I say, course-correcting mid-stream.

“Yeah, I want to hear,” he says, sounding off, but maybe he’s just exhausted. “And I have a thank you gift for you. Can I come up?”

He’s here?

I didn’t see that coming.

“Of course,” I say, but my gut instinct tells me something is wrong.