Chapter One-Andrea
It’s been two weeks since the wedding, and memories of that night still haunt my dreams.
No, not haunt—consume.
I wake up tangled in sheets, heart racing, skin flushed, thighs slick and aching like I’ve been touched everywhere. Like I’ve been his again.
Because in my dreams, I am.
Remy Falco—gorgeous, naked, hot, and hard—kissing and groping every inch of me, his mouth everywhere, his voice in my ear, his body pressed tight against mine as if he can’t stand a single inch between us.
And when he fills me with that perfect, thick cock of his, I forget how to breathe.
God, he was everything that night.
Rough but careful.
Hungry but sweet.
Commanding in the kind of way that made me feel cherished, not used. Like he’d been waiting for me his whole life and just didn’t know it until I touched him.
I ache remembering how he said my name, or well, the nickname he gave me—Andy—all low and reverent.
Like it meant something.
Like I meant something.
The way he held my face when he kissed me. The way he took his time, even when we were both half-crazy from need. The way he looked at me when he was inside me, like he’d found treasure and wasn’t letting go.
I told myself it was just sex.
Just a night.
Just a distraction.
But the lie tastes sour now.
Because my body might have come down from the high, but my heart hasn’t.
And my stupid, traitorous brain?
It’s still whispering questions I don’t have the guts to say out loud.
Does he think about me?
Was it more for him, too?
Why hasn’t he called?
I roll onto my back, stare at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom, and groan.
Of course, he hasn’t called.
That night probably meant nothing to him.
Just a fling. Just a wedding hookup with a willing girl who made him laugh.
But to me?
It was hope. It was maybe.
It was please, God, let this be something.
And now, two weeks later, I’m still waking up with his name on my lips and nothing but silence on my phone.
I press my hand to my stomach, curious.
I get up and move to the bathroom I share with the next bedroom.
Locking both doors, because you never know in this house, I get myself ready.
I try to ignore the guilt clawing at my chest as I tear the little pink box open like it insulted me and my whole damn family tree.
It’s stupid, right? Feeling guilty for hoping.
For wanting.
The directions are basic.
Pee on the stick, cap it, lay it flat, wait three minutes.
Easy.
Except I kinda miss and pee on my hand a little.
Not the glamorous moment I was hoping for. But I’m too anxious to care.
I cap the stick, toss it on the counter, and practically dive for the sink.
Scrubbing like Lady Macbeth while trying not to gag.
Not from the pee, but from the nerves that have completely taken over my body.
My hands are shaking. My knees feel like jelly. My heart? Racing like it’s trying to escape my ribcage.
The little plastic stick just sits there on the counter, smug and silent.
I set the timer.
Three minutes.
God, three minutes has never felt so long. I lean against the sink, palms pressed to cool porcelain, trying to breathe through the storm inside me. I feel queasy.
Not nauseous—just that crawling anxiety that tightens around your throat and won’t let go.
I don’t puke. Not really.
I can count on one hand how many times in my life I’ve actually thrown up.
But this?
This might be number six.
Knock knock knock.
“Andrea, hurry up! I have to get to practice this morning!”
I groan.
“Oh my God, Julia. What practice? Are you sleepwalking?”
“Ha ha. You know I’m coaching youth soccer this year,” she calls back, all smug and helpful.
I roll my eyes so hard I almost sprain something.
Yes, I do know that.
I know everything about my overachieving little sister and her perfect schedule and her perfect job and her perfect fiancé—an up-and-coming exec at Volkov Industries, approved of by our parents—and her perfect everything.
And yes, I’m bitter.
Sue me.
I mean, I love her. I love all my siblings—but really?
What the actual fuck is going on here?
Why is my twenty-four year old sister about to head into marital bliss while I can’t even land a fuck buddy?
I’m thirty-two years old and back in my childhood bedroom, sharing a bathroom with my sister because my Hoboken apartment was overrun with rats.
Literal ones.
As in exterminators-in-hazmat-suits, full building evacuation, we’ll let you know when it’s safe to return rats.
Disgusting.
As if apartment hunting in North Jersey wasn’t already a nightmare.
Add rodent infestation and a zero-refund policy, and it's like insult to injury wrapped in rent hikes and rat droppings.
So yeah. I’m home.
In my flannel pajama pants, hiding a pregnancy test under a hand towel, and trying not to have a full-on meltdown.
Like that’s even possible.