Chapter 13 Lucy
Lucy
There’s an unfamiliar wall in my view and a pain in my head when I wake up. I shift a little and then feel a shirtless body beside me.
Now I remember where I am.
“Shit…” I say under my breath.
Slowly, I lift the covers and see that I’m wearing an oversize graphic T-shirt and underwear. Thank god.
I move my hand underneath my pillow and feel the sheets around me for my phone. No luck. My eyes scan the room, the floor, the nightstand. Nothing.
Carefully squeezing myself out from the bed, I stand in the middle of the bedroom. Chris’s back is facing me, and based on his snoring, he’s fast asleep. I tiptoe toward his open door and then once I’m in the living room, quietly shut it behind me.
“Really, Luce?” I mutter to myself. As if last night wasn’t bad enough, I had to make the idiotic decision to reconcile with Chris.
Shuffling around the apartment, I see my phone sitting face up on the kitchen table with my black dress from last night draped over the chair beside it.
I grab it and see the time is 8:56 a.m. I don’t have any missed calls, or emails, which makes sense since it’s a Saturday morning. I just have one unread text.
Marsh Oakley.
There’s a gross feeling in my stomach. While I wish the events at The Peppermint Club were fuzzy, I remember vividly what happened last night.
The taste of my martini still lingers in my mouth.
The smell of Marsh’s cologne is stuck to my skin, and the sound of the bass pounds in the back of my head.
Obviously, I had more to drink than usual.
Enough that I’m feeling the effects of it the next morning, but my actions can’t be blamed on the alcohol.
I wanted Marsh last night and I’m irresponsible for going against my best judgments.
I throw my head back and groan at the memory of me throwing myself on him like a drunk college student.
Is it my fault that he looked hotter than usual last night?
That he surprisingly moves like someone who could be on Dancing with the Stars?
That he’s been hiding a goddamn torso that feels like a washing board?
Like a lucid dream, I go back to last night and feel my body molding into Marsh’s.
The way his eyes looked drunk with lust and just how sexy it felt to feel his body move with the music.
“Fuuuck,” I groan.
I crossed a line. A big red line. A line that has me being unemployed on the other side.
Marsh is probably rethinking the whole arrangement right now, and I made a total mess of everything before I could even get three articles out.
Marsh is dangerous territory that will soon become very messy if I continue to allow myself to think of him as anything other than a co-worker.
Preserving my column is more important than any urges I’m feeling. Wincing, I open our message history.
Marsh—11:23 p.m.
Text me when you get home please.
Lucy—11:56 p.m.
Home.
“Morning,” Chris’s groggy voice mutters behind me.
“Oh, uh, morning.” I set my phone down. His boxers are sitting low on his hips, accentuating his V-line.
As he rubs his eyes, every single muscle on his chest and core seem to be at work.
His blond hair looks messy and, frankly, greasy, and there was a moment in time where I would have buckled at the knees for this sight. “How’d you sleep?”
“Okay.” He walks over and gives me a quick kiss on the lips. “What about you?”
“Fine,” I say, rubbing my temple. While I do remember what happened last night—Chris and I making out for a bit, putting on some made-for-Netflix movie, and then falling asleep—I still want to make sure there are no missing gaps. “We didn’t, uh, sleep together last night, right?”
Chris gives me an amused look. “Why?”
“Because…I missed a few days of my birth control so just making sure,” I lie.
Chris walks over to the kitchen and pops a pod into his Nespresso machine. “Nah, you said your head hurt.”
“Right, right.” I take a sigh of relief. “Well, uh, I’ve got to get home and work on some stuff.”
“Just like that, huh,” Chris teases. “You show up here last night and now you can’t get away fast enough. I don’t get you, Luce.”
Nobody gets me and I don’t think anyone will. I don’t even get myself right now.
When I get home, I head straight for the shower.
I let the hot water run over my head, down my neck and back, and to my feet as I make a mental note of everything from last night.
Make notes of everything, Marsh’s voice echoes in my ear.
After drying off, I open my laptop and start a new document tracking last night.
Everything that Marsh said, what I said, what Dani said, even what that Australian woman said.
I jot down observations, like the R & B mix and the décor in the club.
I then start making notes about how it made me feel.
How did I feel when I saw that woman talking to Marsh? Even though he was completely oblivious to what was happening, a part of me felt jealous. There’s a knot in my stomach even using that word, but I did feel jealous.
How did I feel when we were talking to Dani? Protective. Marsh is too much of a gentleman to say otherwise, but Dani was being spiteful. I know exactly the kinds of conversations she and Julia have about Marsh over red wine and charcuterie boards, and frankly, Marsh doesn’t deserve that.
How did I feel when we were on the dance floor? I was aroused, undeniably turned-on, because this may be the first time I’m attracted to not only a man’s physical appearance but also his mind.
My phone buzzes and I see a text from Eman.
Eman:
Hope you’re having a good weekend! No need to respond but just caught wind that your last two stories are doing AMAZING. Huge praise from the team and the clicks are crazy. Keep it up!
Suddenly it feels like there’s so much more at stake right now.
I wasn’t sure if we would, but Marsh and I have a connection. It’s mental, emotional, and now physical…which I’m still wrapping my head around. I’ve had sexual chemistry with other men, but Marsh isn’t just another man. This feels different. And I don’t know what that means.
What I do know is now that the stories are doing well, we have to continue with our arrangement. And if we continue, we need to talk about last night. We need to talk without any alcohol in our systems or distractingly sexy clothing on.
I continue to jot down more notes when my phone buzzes.
Marsh:
Hey.
Lucy:
Hey, I was just thinking about you.
Marsh:
How are you feeling?
Lucy:
I’ve finally managed to fight off the headache from this morning. You?
Marsh:
Good. I was wondering if we could talk?
Lucy:
Are you going to break up with me?
Marsh:
Can I break up with someone who I’m technically not really dating?
Ouch.
Lucy:
I’m low on tinted moisturizer. I was going to the mall to restock. Want to come?
Marsh:
Just let me know when and where
Lucy:
The Grove at 3:30?
Marsh:
See you soon
The Grove isn’t just one of LA’s most popular shopping centers, it’s one of the biggest tourist attractions too.
The outdoor mall is manufactured to feel like high-end retail and at the same time a picture-perfect day out.
From the farmers market to the infamous trolley that brings you around the charming fountain, I almost understand why I pay five dollars an hour for parking.
It’s my karma for willingly choosing to live in one of the most expensive cities in the world.
Marsh is already seated on the bench outside of the Apple Store, hunched over his knees and typing on his phone. He’s back to wearing forest green shirts with glasses and jeans. I don’t know how it happened but suddenly everything this man does exudes…hot.
“Hey,” I say.
His eyes shoot up and he stands. “Hey, how’s it going?”
Then there’s this weird thing that happens where I keep walking toward him, and for whatever reason…
give him a hug. It’s one of those things where I’m very much aware that I don’t need to be hugging him, but I’ve committed to the bit, and his body feels lean and big and he most definitely smells like fresh laundry and some kind of woodsy body wash.
His arm wraps around my back, and we’re standing in the middle of the mall hugging.
“Good.” I cough and step back. If he catches my awkwardness, he doesn’t show it.
We start walking toward Sephora. There’s an awkward silence in the air mixed with Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” playing on the outdoor sound system. “So…” he starts, “tinted moisturizer.”
This is not a great start to a conversation. “Yes, have you heard of it?”
“I’m assuming it’s a moisturizer that’s…tinted.”
“Don’t tell me Julia’s face was so perfect she didn’t need to wear tinted moisturizer.”
He thinks for a moment. “I have no idea what she used.”
We walk inside Sephora, and I can immediately tell Marsh is overstimulated. I don’t blame him. It seems like every time I’m here there’s a Black Friday sale happening no matter what time or day of the week.
“I promise I only need one thing,” I tell him and head straight for the area of the store that carries the brand I need. Marsh follows and watches me grab my shade. He then follows me to the line for the cash register that has probably twenty people. “I should have just ordered online,” I mutter.
“I don’t mind waiting,” he says.
“Spoken like a true boyfriend.”
“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “About that.”
Here it is…the part where he tells me this was a bad idea. How after last night, it’s clear I’m too reckless and he’d rather go to the wedding alone.
“Yeah?” I manage to say.
“I don’t think—” he stops when what I can only describe as a thirteen-year-old who looks like she’s thirty-five pushes past him to her group of friends ahead of us. “I don’t think—”
“Excuse me.” A woman behind us taps my shoulder and points to my tinted moisturizer. “Where did you find that?”
“Oh,” I say, “uh, it’s closer to the front.” I vaguely point in the right direction of the makeup minefield and then turn back to Marsh. “You don’t think what?”