Chapter 6 Reproductive Aging #2
Andreas was the opposite of awkward as he made his excuses.
So smooth. He thanked Kendra for inviting us, told Keith and Clive it had been a pleasure, and said something to Diya in what did not sound like English, Norwegian, or Italian.
I didn’t know what it meant, but Diya laughed so hard she nearly fell out of her chair. What language was that?
Diya must’ve caught my confused look, because she said, “It was Tamil. And I am very impressed.”
So perfect, this guy.
Andreas escorted me to the door, pausing every so often to steady me when I started to veer off course.
The outside air hit me like a wall, but instead of sobering me up, it made everything feel softer, like the world had been dunked in fabric softener.
I clung to his arm and let him guide me down the steps and onto the sidewalk, where Tara waited beside the Mercedes, arms folded and eyes scanning the street.
“Hi, Tara. You’re awesome,” I slurred, but she just smiled and held the car door open for me.
Andreas ducked inside with me, his hand warm on my lower back as he helped me in. Once we were seated, he leaned across my lap and fastened my seat belt for me, the side of his face just inches from mine, the line of his jaw so crisp I wanted to bite it.
I closed my eyes as the car started to move, but then, because I was at that stage of drunkenness where all consequences are theoretical, I turned my face into his neck and planted a gentle, deliberate kiss just above his collar.
“Thank you,” I whispered against the skin of his neck, “for being so great with my friends.” It sounded embarrassing the moment it left my mouth, but I didn’t care.
Andreas went perfectly still. I felt his pulse under my lips, fast and sharp.
When I pulled back and looked at him, his eyes were dark and focused, fixed on mine. He didn’t move, not right away. Maybe he was waiting to see what I would do next. Or maybe I’d upset him?
But my head was heavy and my body was even heavier, so instead of parsing the tension between us, I let my cheek fall to his chest and curled up against him again, sighing in contentment.
After a moment, I frowned because he felt tense instead of yielding. I wiggled and shifted, demanding, “Loosen up! And let me cuddle your big, sexy body.”
It sounded like he gave a short, stunned laugh. Or maybe he coughed. Then, after a pause, he wrapped his arm around my shoulders and held me as I fell asleep.
* * *
Thanksgiving morning, I woke up in Andreas Kristiansen’s bed.
Correction. I woke up alone, in Andreas’s bed. Both better and, paradoxically, worse than waking up sprawled all over him.
Worse, because I remembered, with spectacular—albeit, hungover—clarity, being carried by the man himself last night.
The brutally vivid memory of my own idiocy played in my head.
He’d physically lifted me from the sidewalk, bridal carried me through the lobby, into the elevator, and into the apartment.
We’d paused at the bathroom as he helped me brush my teeth—ohmygodIamtheWORST!
—and then he’d deposited my limp, drunk body onto my mattress in my room. I remembered all of it.
What I didn’t remember was walking in here and taking over his bed. Again.
I groaned, kicked the air under the sheet, and tried to will myself out of existence.
Failing that, I rolled over and attempted to die face-down in the pillow.
This plan was immediately complicated by the sharp, masculine scent of Andreas that lingered on the pillowcase.
Cologne and soap, plus the unmistakable base note of “damn it, why does he get me so hot.”
I tried to reconstruct all the events of last night. We’d gotten back from Smokin Greens at, what, ten? Before that, we’d left the restaurant together and in the car I’d kissed him. Not on the cheek, but on the side of his neck.
I shot upright in bed, clutching the duvet to my chest, horrified.
Oh no. Oh no no no!
I’d kissed his neck, right under his jaw, and then—I groaned again, this time louder—called his body “big” and “sexy” in the back seat of the Mercedes. That memory, clear as HD, was followed by a blank patch. I’d probably fallen asleep in the car.
I groaned again, reached for the nearest pillow, and started whacking myself on the forehead with it.
“Stop sleepwalking into his bed. Stop sleepwalking into his bed,” I chanted, punctuating every word with a fresh pillow whack. “Never drink around Andreas again. Never drink again, period. Never speak again, actually. Monastic vow, effective immediately.”
I took a breath and surveyed the damage.
Still in the clothes from last night: jeans, T-shirt, and—oh, I must’ve gotten cold, because I wore his enormous gray sweater, which was now stretched out from where I’d probably tried to cocoon myself.
My hair, which I could only see by its shadow on the white duvet, was a haywire mass.
My mouth, at least, tasted like peppermint toothpaste. But also regret.
The only logical solution was to strip the bedding and do his laundry as an act of penance. Hauling myself out of bed, legs shaking, I gathered the sheets into a ball while chastising myself.
I wasn’t used to being a hot mess. I was used to being the chick who had her shit together, who others asked for advice, who showed up on moving day to help no matter what, and who visited friends in the hospital.
I’d baked seventeen freezer casseroles for Kaitlyn after baby Joey was born, for God’s sake!
I’d done their laundry for over a month and cleaned their guest bathroom with a toothbrush. I was CAPABLE!
But now, I didn’t know this person who drank too much and kissed necks and sexually harassed their revenge partner. Get yourself together, Sam!
It was only after I maneuvered the comforter off the duvet cover that my thoughts quieted down enough for the sound of voices in the living room to reach my ears.
Specifically, the low rumble of Andreas’s voice, and the soft, polite laughter of someone else over the phone. The odds that Andreas had heard me pillow thumping my own skull were very, very high.
Sigh.
Well, that’s just freaking . . . great.