Chapter Two
Sadie
I know he said he only recently moved in, but even so. There’s a single chair in the lounge room with a massive television propped on a wooden crate. An open box of crockery sits on the bench of the recently renovated kitchen with a single plate, bowl and mug removed. The fancy high-end coffee machine and sleek fridge suggests this guy is not hard up for a dollar. As does the sublimely comfortable bed, complete with white sheets that feel like a million silkworms worked overtime to make them.
Boxes line the already narrow hallway. As far as I can see, they’re all marked ‘books’. Doesn’t surprise me. He came across as smart and well-read. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.
“The Uber should be here in five. Are you sure you’re okay with that? I’d drive you, but I haven’t got a car at the moment.” He leans in the doorway, phone in hand, all tall and defined and gorgeous in grey sweats and nothing else, despite the slight chill in the house.
The whole package is porn. From his slightly too long hair that’s neither red nor brown but both to his flawless cheekbones and washboard abs, all the way down to his perfect toes. He even has those V-cut muscles pointing to the promised land, the outline of which is clear in the sweats.
If I wasn’t aching in every muscle, and it wasn’t nearly four in the morning, and I didn’t have to finalise my PhD application paperwork tomorrow—I mean today—I might even cancel the Uber.
I pull on the boots I discarded in the hall on the way to his bedroom.
“It’s absolutely fine. This is Sydney. Not the Middle East.” A strange expression crosses his face. I don’t bother to try and puzzle it out. I’m unlikely to see his face again. Although if round two—or technically, I guess you could call it round four, depending on how you estimate it— was guaranteed to be as good as round one, it might actually be worth it to break my once-only rule. Which I do sometimes. Although not often. It’s more of a guideline, if I’m honest.
He follows me down the hall and leans around me to open the door, giving me one last blast of the mouthwatering smell of the body wash we soaped over each other earlier. Just before round three.
“Thanks for a great night.” I button up my jacket. It’s freezing outside at this time of the morning.
“Believe me, it was my pleasure.” His grin is wry and a little sad. It’s not until I notice his mouth—full and soft in his whiskered face—that I realise we never kissed. Not once. Unfamiliar regret floods my system. I don’t generally care for kissing. As Vivian and Edward say in Pretty Woman , it’s too personal. However, I do regret that I won’t be able to remember the feel of those lips on mine, because they’re next level beautiful.
We both hesitate. A car pulls up, idling in the narrow street, and his phone chimes quietly.
“Well, take care.” Impulsively, I lean forward and brush his cheek with my lips before trotting down the path. I turn back at the gate for one final look. He’s standing in the doorway, arm stretched up gripping the doorframe. Gulp. What is it about a man’s armpit? Is it the curve? The pale skin? The soft hair? I take a mental snapshot to bring out and study later. When inspiration is needed.
He’s still there, silhouetted by the light in the hall, when the Uber pulls away.
I might not be able to remember the feel of his lips on mine, but I won’t forget the feel of them on my neck and my breast and my thighs any time soon.
Four hours of sleep is not really enough. But it’s going to have to do. I’m a little sore from all the acrobatics last night but also energised. Good sex—great sex—will do that to you, I guess.
“There’s a bruise on your neck,” my friend and flatmate, Bella, mumbles over the rim of her coffee mug. A shiver runs through me at the memory of how I came by the bruise.
She doesn’t ask how I got it. She knows whoever gave it to me is unlikely to make another appearance. Although, I would consider it with Solo Man.
“Lucky it’s cold enough for a scarf, then.” I slip a pod into the fancy coffee machine Bella’s parents bought us when we moved in together and wait for the liquid life to emerge. “Perhaps the more important issue is why you’re here. Didn't you have a date? Or wait, is whatshisname here?” I look towards her open bedroom door. The bed is a mess, as usual, but I see no sign of an inhabitant.
“Jacob, and yes. But no. He bailed.” Bella pouts, simultaneously hurt and annoyed.
“Again? Why are you even bothering with this guy? This is the third time he’s bailed—at the last minute—in what, a total of five dates? Strike three. You’re out, buddy.”
“I know. But he’s so cute. And he said he was sorry.” I don’t know why she’s looking so imploringly at me. I wasn’t the one who stood her up.
“If he was sorry, he wouldn’t keep doing it. Also, he’s not cute enough to be worth it.”
“He looks better in person,” Bella defends. I’ve only seen his profile pic. If he snagged Bella, he’d be punching well above his weight.
I snort. “He’d want to. If you sleep with him after this, I swear I’m going to slap you upside the head.” I doctor my coffee with milk and sugar and slide onto one of the stools at the island bench.
“Hey. You sleep with guys all the time. On the first date.” Bella rinses her mug, puts it in the drainer on the sink and points to my neck. “Case in point.”
“That’s different. I don’t get attached. Two dates and you’re practicing your new surname and working out if your kids’ initials will spell something rude.”
“That’s not … well, okay. I have done that once or twice.” She pulls her long dark hair over her shoulder and begins constructing a rough braid, the start of her morning shower routine. “But we’ve been on five dates.”
“Um, no. You haven’t. He’s bailed on three of five, so you’ve been on two.” I love Bella, but she’s terrible at maths. She’s also a hopeless romantic, meaning I’m the one left to pick up the pieces when the guys get what they came for and move on.
I’m distracted from our conversation by a text that makes me groan.
“Wicked witch?” Bella asks, being familiar with the expression a text from my mother elicits.
“Reminding me it’s my brother’s birthday tomorrow. Don’t forget to call your baby brother for his birthday! Dinner at my place 7 pm. Ugh. There’s a kissy emoji.” I roll my eyes. “I can’t remember the last time my brother called me for my birthday. Oh, yes, I can. Never. That’s when.”
I know I’ll have to message back, but I’ll need more than one cup of coffee for that one. Because dinner at her place tomorrow is not happening. Not least because the likelihood of my brother even turning up is slim. Unless he wants money, of course.
And the only time I ever hear from my mother is when she wants something. In this case, to make a pretence of happy families to plaster all over social media in the hopes my father will see. Like he'd care. No sooner have I had that thought than my phone rings. She didn’t even give me five minutes to respond. No point in prolonging the agony. I rip the Band-Aid off and accept the call.
“Why haven’t you responded to my text?” Not even a hello, which tells me this will be unpleasant at best.
“Hello, Mum. I’m fine, thanks. How are you?” I nod as Bella holds up another pod, eyebrows raised. I’m probably going to need it.
“Don’t be facetious. It’s very unattractive. What have you bought your brother for his birthday?”
“The same thing he got me last year, actually.” I pass my empty mug to Bella for the refill. She hovers, knowing I might need to have a sweary conversation once I hang up.
There’s a loaded silence. I can’t believe she even has to think about it.
“He doesn’t have a job, Sadie. You can’t expect him to spend what little money he has on gifts for you.”
I know for a fact my mother gives him a very generous ‘allowance’. I’d make a comment about what he’s doing with his life, which is partying, but it only falls on deaf ears.
“I suppose your father will ignore his only son’s birthday like he always does.”
“You mean like he ignores mine? Probably.” Dad ignores all of us. My brother shouldn’t feel special.
“Hmm. I did warn you studying ancient history wouldn’t be enough to get his attention. Did you listen to me? No, you did not.”
This is the point in the conversation I usually tune out. Today, I take it one step further.
“I have to go, Mum. I’m late for work. I’ll let you know if I can make it tomorrow night.” And I hang up before she can respond.
Well, that effectively poured a bucket of cortisol on my post-sex endorphins.