Chapter 19
‘Happy humping!’ Frankie calls after us cheerily as Joe and I make our way upstairs to bed, which isn’t embarrassing at all. It turns out that all the car champagne I drank took its toll because I started yawning at half past ten, right when the group was gearing up for a drinking game. The sight of Tally lining up bottles of Patrón and shot glasses must have tipped me over the edge, because the next thing I knew Joe was crouching down by my side on the sofa, gently whispering my name. I’d dropped off, as evidenced by the line of drool trickling down my chin. Celeste was first to spot this and handed me a tissue, looking horrified that I’d allowed myself to get in such a state in front of my hot boyfriend.
‘Let’s get you some rest,’ Joe had said, holding out a hand so I could drag myself up.
So now we’re heading up to our room with, for reasons unknown, the rest of the group gathered at the foot of the stairs.
Tally wolf-whistles.
Olivia is blatantly staring at Joe’s butt as he retreats up the staircase.
And as for Frankie, well, she’s miming riding a bucking bronco while Dave tries to prise a bottle of tequila from her hands. ‘Stop it, Dave,’ she grumbles loudly. ‘I’m just excited for these two love birds. You get some, guys!’
‘Oh my god,’ Joe mumbles under his breath, taking the stairs two at a time.
I’m giggling as we round the corner and Joe pulls us both into our bedroom.
Once inside, he shuts the door and presses his back against it, sheer relief on his face.
‘I thought Frankie was about to follow us in here for a minute,’ he exhales.
I grimace. ‘You know the scene in a period drama when a royal couple has just got married? All the courtiers follow them into their bedroom and stand around the bed to make sure they consummate the marriage? This feels like that.’
‘Thank Christ we’re not in a period drama.’ Joe grins. ‘I would not be able to perform if Frankie and Celeste were in here.’
He pauses, looks ruffled, and now I’m standing here visualising Joe ‘performing’. I don’t hate the thought.
Suddenly I’m very aware that it’s just the two of us.
I take a gulp of the water he carried up for me, unsure what to do next. I mean, I should probably start with shaking the image of a naked Joe from my mind, right? I walk further into the room, spot the double bed and remember that we do actually have to navigate a night together now. Not like that, obviously.
But still.
‘Honestly, you take it,’ says Joe, reading my mind. ‘I can sneak downstairs later and kip on the sofa. Besides, I’m not sure if I’ll get much rest up here if you’re going to make those guinea pig noises when you’re asleep again.’
‘Oi!’ I jab him in the ribs, laughing. ‘I’m happy to share if you are? We’re adults. We’ll be fine.’
Why oh WHY did I just say that? Can Joe tell I’ve lost the plot today? I glance at him to see a look flash across his eyes.
‘We’ll be fine,’ he repeats in a low voice. Then he looks around the room like he’s coming to his senses. ‘Right. I might grab a quick shower, do you want to use the bathroom before I steam it up?’
Naked Joe. Steamy bathroom Joe. My mind fogs up quicker than a bathroom mirror might. Joe brushes past me as he reaches for the weekend bag he left on our bed and his soft T-shirt comes into contact with my bare upper arm. Completely innocuous but for some reason my heart is now pumping twice as fast and my brain is scrambling to make sense of this feeling. I physically wobble on the spot like a leaf blowing in the wind.
‘Oops.’ Joe stops right in front of me and puts both hands on my shoulders. ‘You okay?’
I nod dumbly.
Joe frowns. ‘Do you feel all right, Sophie?’
In response, I squeak and race into the bathroom.
I’m just drunk, right? These aren’t real life feelings. These are Drunk Sophie feelings. Silly old Drunk Sophie getting all hot and bothered by a boy. I’ll laugh about this in the morning, I decide as I finish up my skincare routine, tie my hair back in a bun and pull on my PJs. The baggy, moth-eaten T-shirt seemed like such a celebration of freedom when I packed earlier but I had not anticipated sharing a bed with Joe while wearing it. Not that it matters, I remind myself. I pull it over my head and stare wistfully into the bathroom mirror. It barely covers my arse. I’ll just have to dash straight out of the en suite and into bed, moving at such incredible speeds that Joe doesn’t see anything.
I scoop up my clothes and washbag with purpose, fling open the bathroom door and run.
Smack bang into Joe.
‘Jesus,’ he mutters as I ricochet off him, my neat bundle of stuff flying everywhere. Can I not even stand up straight in Joe’s presence anymore? Instinctively Joe has placed both hands on my hips to help me get my balance. They feel pleasingly warm against my skin, I note, realising that Joe also has very few clothes on. I track down along his firm, flat torso and linger at the fabric of his boxers.
Stop being inappropriate, Sophie!
Joe seems to realise that his palms are still on my hips and moves them quickly away.
My mind is still a steamed-up window so I blink it out and decide to just get the eff to bed. Only, as I bend down to pick my clothes off the floor I accidentally afford Joe a full glimpse of my underwear.
He clears his throat. I tug at my T-shirt.
‘Just going to grab that shower,’ he practically growls.
While he’s busy, I get myself set up. Everything I could possibly need is right by my side of the bed, which should help to avoid any further butt-flashing incidents for the rest of the night. I found a couple of towelling robes in the wardrobe so I’ve got one folded up next to me ready to fling on in the morning, too. I’m blaming Wales for this weird frisson between us. There must be something in the air.
Oh crikey, he’s coming out of the bathroom and he’s just got a towel wrapped around his waist and I can’t look. I physically have to snap my eyes shut. I find myself wondering if I’ve developed a crush on Joe. No, that’s ridiculous. It’s definitely the Welsh air.
He climbs into bed.
I decide that a matey pat on the back would be ideal right now.
Joe looks at me curiously. ‘We could top and tail if that would make you feel more comfortable?’
‘I’ll do it!’ Seizing the chance to not be side to side with a semi-naked Joe feels like the only sensible option. I grab my pillows and practically fling myself down to the other end of the bed.
Only, in my enthusiasm to create some distance and therefore less frisk between us, I accidentally kick him square in the face.
‘Fuck,’ says Joe.
He sits up straight, pressing gingerly at his face, and I scramble back up the bed to see the damage I’ve done.
‘Can I look?’ I ask, easing his hand away from his mouth.
He winces. ‘It’s fine, honestly.’
It is not fine. As I gently move his hand, I see that I’ve given Joe a fat lip.
‘Oh my god! I’m so sorry. You’re, um, bleeding quite a bit.’ I rush into the bathroom to grab tissues. By the time I come back there’s blood trickling down Joe’s chin and he must read my concern because he insists: ‘I’ll be grand, don’t worry.’
I perch next to him on the bed.
‘Here,’ I say, dabbing at the wound with a tissue. ‘It’s quite a cut.’
I’m acutely aware that our faces are so close I can hear the rise and fall of his breath. Quite mesmerising.
‘I barely felt it,’ he insists, which we both know is a huge fib.
‘Oh really?’ I reply. ‘You must have special magic lips that are completely impenetrable to blunt trauma, then?’
Why am I talking about Joe’s magic lips? I should be tending to his wound in a matronly manner, definitely not a flirty one.
The lecture to myself does not work. How have I not noticed what beautiful lips he has before? Full. Soft.
Temptation to press myself up against half-naked Joe: high to critical.
‘How’s it looking, Dr Rogers?’ Joe murmurs, his gaze pinning me to the spot. A flash of something crosses his deep-blue pupils.
Steady breaths.
I lift the tissue away and at least attempt to take a clinical look.
‘It was hit and miss for a while there, but I think you’ll survive.’
‘That is a relief.’ He lets out a low laugh before wincing.
‘No more laughing for Joe,’ I instruct, and I manage to get up to try and break this weird spell we’re under. ‘In fact I prescribe some paracetamol and absolutely no smiling whatsoever while that heals.’
His eyes are still on me as I move away from the bed.
‘Sounds like a fun weekend for me.’
‘I’ll be keeping my eye on you.’
‘Yes please.’ He smoulders.
Help. I need distractions.
Bring it back to the medical mishap, Sophie.
‘I have some paracetamol if you want one?’ I offer.
Joe runs his tongue under his lip. ‘If you don’t mind, yeah. It is a bit sore.’
‘I feel awful,’ I say as I rummage through my washbag for supplies.
‘Don’t.’
‘Here they are.’ I walk back over and hand Joe a packet of paracetamol. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me in what feels like forever.
‘I like you in that T-shirt.’
Ah yes, my embarrassing decades-old PJ top. I’d almost forgotten I was wearing it.
‘Ha, very funny.’
‘I’m being serious.’
‘Well, flattery gets you everywhere,’ I quip without thinking.
‘Everywhere?’ Joe’s eyes flash.
Our fingers brush as he hands back the packet. Even I can’t deny the palpable tension between us now. Our hands are still touching. At some point I drop the paracetamol. He circles his fingers around my wrist and ever so gently pulls me towards him on the bed.
I’d like to say I’ve lost my mind because that would be a great excuse for this uncharacteristic behaviour, but I haven’t. I’ve never felt more present. I’m now inches away from him, his bare chest taking up all of my vision. He smells incredible.
His hand is working its way up my arm, setting off little fires as it goes. He reaches my jaw and I see with complete clarity that we are about to Cross The Line. But I don’t care. I’m so turned on even a cold shower wouldn’t cut the mustard.
I lean in.
Joe’s phone starts to ring.
‘Ignore it,’ he murmurs, his face inching closer to mine.
‘Joe,’ I manage. And then I pull away just a small amount, but it’s enough to let me think straight for a moment. ‘What if it’s about Sid?’
He lets out an almighty sigh and pauses.
And then he gets up to answer the call and the moment is broken.
What am I doing, gadding about with Joe like we’re actually a couple? For gods’ sake!
Joe pads into the bathroom with his phone and I shake my head at myself. A disgrace. I need to nip this in the bud, and fast. While Joe’s out the room I organise my pillows at the tail of the bed and get myself firmly tucked in. This will not do.
‘Sorry about that,’ he says, looking mutinous as he comes back. ‘My old boss wanting a quick chat. Catastrophic timing.’
‘No worries,’ I say, overly cheery. ‘We should probably get some rest.’
Joe clears his throat. ‘If that’s what you want?’
‘I just think we need to keep our eyes on the prize.’ I squirm at myself. ‘You know, remember why we’re doing this? I really don’t want to mess things up.’
Joe nods. Climbs into bed.
‘Understood. Good night, Sophie.’
I do not sleep. Every time I close my eyes I find myself fantasising about rolling over in bed and straddling Joe. I stay very firmly on my side though, wrapped up in a duvet burrito. I can’t risk us touching. I need to snap out of this but that seems impossible with the sheer physicality of Joe lying next to me in bed. In the end I pull out my phone and scroll through work emails, the least sexy task there is, before drifting off into a fitful sleep.