Chapter 5
Mind-blowing almost hook up, followed immediately by earth-altering awkwardness.
I can’t even look Booker in the eyes when reality dawns on me over what’s just happened. How much did I show him? How little control did I have over myself? God, I hope I didn’t scream out “I love you” or something moronic like that!
No words are spoken as I wiggle out from under him and grab my clothes up off the floor. I scurry into the loo as fast as my shaky legs can take me. Dropping down on the toilet, I run my hands through my hair as I desperately try to shut off my libido and wake my brain the fuck up.
I finish peeing and wash my hands and face before putting my clothes back on. Glancing at my reflection in the mirror, I shake my head in disgust as I dry-swallow my birth control pill like it’ll somehow calm my anxiety-filled head.
I came back to London under the guise that I had changed. That I no longer needed, wanted, or cared about Booker Harris like I once thought I did. And what’s the first thing I do? Nearly sleep with him hours after I’ve moved in to his flat.
I’m officially ridiculous.
A knot forms in my throat as disappointment and shame cloud over me.
I brush my teeth, trying to stop the tears from falling, but it’s no use.
I’ve really fucked things up, and this splitting headache creeping over me isn’t helping matters.
I don’t even feel drunk anymore, but surely that’s the only excuse I can claim after such an outrageous display of affection.
Swallowing hard and praying I can sneak out of the loo without being noticed, I open the door and dash out with my head down.
When I pass his room, I think I’ve made it, only to collide with a shirtless Booker propped against the wall beside my door.
Nerves explode in my chest as I eye his abs—hard, corded abs that I was stroking only moments ago.
I look up to see Booker’s sympathetic gaze in the dark. Christ, he’s mortified. “Poppy, I didn’t mean to…I hope you don’t think I—”
“It was nothing, Booker. No need to apologise. There’s really no need to say a word.”
The very last thing I need to hear him say right now is that he doesn’t have feelings for me. He couldn’t put a bloody shirt on for this?
He frowns and tugs on his earlobe. He’s had that nervous tic since we were kids. “That wasn’t what—”
“Let’s just forget it. It’s late. We’ve had too much to drink.” I make a move for my room, feeling like the cheapest kind of whore, but his hand shoots out, stopping my retreat.
“You’re not leaving, right?” His eyes are wide and fearful. His hand clenches the doorframe firmly, like he’s trying to stop himself from flipping out.
I shake my head. “Not unless you want me to leave.”
He closes his eyes with a heavy sigh. “That’s the last thing I want. I just hope you don’t think I was trying to take advantage of you.” He rushes the words out, tension radiating from his thick forearm. “I’d rather kill myself than have you think that’s why I asked you to move in with me.”
I shake my head awkwardly, eyes downcast. “No need to get suicidal. I’m equally as guilty, Booker. You have no idea.” And he never will. I’ll never tell him that this isn’t the first time I’ve thought of him naked with me.
“What do you mean?” His voice sounds curious more than accusatory.
My mouth opens and closes a few times before I stammer, “I was the one mixing the drinks.” I laugh nervously and hate the sound of my voice right now. “Please, Booker. I’m drunk and I need to pass out.”
He stiffens with a sharp intake of breath and then slowly drops his arm. I scurry past him like a shameful child who got caught shagging the neighbour boy, which I very nearly did.
I slide the door closed.
Sleep. I just need sleep. I’ll deal with this monumental fuck-up in the morning.
In the early morning hours, I wake with a horrid migraine that could kill all other migraines.
I get them from time to time, but they’re usually stress-induced, centred around exams and that sort of thing.
Are sexually frustrated migraines a thing?
I’d think nearly sleeping with your best friend from childhood constitutes migraine-worthy stress.
The pain is so intense, it’s accompanied by heavy nausea. This is usually how my migraines go: I wake up, puke, and then disappear for as many days as it takes the fucker to subside. I have medication for them, but all it does is dull the murderous pain from homicide to manslaughter.
I slide out of bed and step into a pair of sweats.
Sure enough, the gagging sets in. Sprinting out of my room and straight to the loo, I spew the contents of my belly—mostly whiskey—into the toilet.
The light shining through the foggy window is near crippling.
This is either the worst kind of hangover or the worst kind of migraine.
Probably both. Fuck me if I don’t deserve this.
When the nausea wanes, I slowly make my way out of the bathroom.
As I open the door, I glance over and see Booker drinking a glass of water in the kitchen.
He’s wearing a pair of football shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, the back of which is soaked in sweat.
He obviously just came back from a workout.
He turns when he hears me, and I give him a slight head nod. “Crippling hangover or migraine. Either way, I’m going back to bed.”
He looks uneasy for a moment, like he wants to say something but then thinks better of it and nods politely. Watching his head shake hurts my brain.
I return to the comfort of my room, yank the curtain closed over the balcony door, and blanket myself in darkness. I hate the dark, but in these scenarios, I need it. Migraines are nature’s cruel joke on my childish phobia.
Closing my eyes, I pray for sleep to find me. I pray even more that I’ll wake up and find that last night with Booker was a stupid nightmare.
When I wake up, it’s dark outside. I sit up and exhale a huge sigh of relief that my head no longer feels like there’s a vice grip on it. I lean over to the lamp that Booker left on my floor and flick it on, as appreciating that my room is now bathed in a soft yellow glow. I’m alive. I made it.
Itching for a shower, I gather up some clothes and slide open my door, nearly tripping over a bottle of water on the floor, accompanied by two pieces of toast on a plate.
Tummy grumbling, I grab a slice and take a bite.
It’s definitely more than a few hours old, so I wash it down with a sip of water before making my way down the hall.
Booker must be out because the flat is dark, aside from the blue backsplash light in the kitchen. That’s good. Space is precisely what we need. And since I’m just now feeling human again, I’m grateful for the solitude.
The shower is glorious. It has eight sprayers that hit me in all my favourite places, rejuvenating in more ways than one. I dry off and yank a brush through my short tresses, staring at myself in the foggy mirror for a mental pep talk.
Okay, Poppy. You can handle this. True it wasn’t the best twenty-four hours of your life.
But that doesn’t have to mean anything has changed.
Booker left toast and water at your door.
That’s a very friendly thing to do, and that’s all you want from him anyway.
You’re not the same girl who pined for him in your teen years.
You’ve changed. You have a nipple ring to prove it!
You’ve experienced men. Only a few, but still.
That basically means you’re the shit, and a little foreplay with your best friend changes nothing.
Even if it was…really…fucking…good.