Chapter 3 Margot
Margot
Iwake up with a throbbing headache, a rolling stomach, and a deep sense of confusion.
Where am I, and how did I get here?
The luxurious sheets glide across my skin as I drag myself upright.
My hand lands on something small and familiar: my glasses, tangled in the bedding.
I pull them free and slide them onto my face.
Morning sunlight filters through sheer white curtains to my right, illuminating the room around me.
It reminds me of an upscale hotel room, immaculately decorated and spotlessly clean.
Am I in one of the spare bedrooms at Emma’s house?
No, that can’t be right. She’s in New Zealand with her fiancé, who happens to be Ethan’s brother.
Oh no.
Ethan.
His name triggers a flood of memories from last night in my brain and a fresh wave of nausea in my stomach. I don’t remember the finer details, but I’m fairly certain that I got drunk, spilled my guts to my boss, and now I’m waking up in a bed at his house.
Fortunately, it doesn’t appear to be his bed.
Most women would jump at the opportunity to wake up beside Ethan North, but I can’t imagine anything worse.
It’s not that Ethan is unattractive or unlikeable.
Quite the opposite, actually. A local magazine even named him Denver’s Most Eligible Bachelor last year.
Objectively, he’s a very good catch. But he’s also my boss, and the idea of drunkenly hooking up with him makes my stomach revolt.
Tossing the covers back, I drag myself out of bed and pad across the chilly wooden floor.
There’s an ensuite bathroom attached to the room.
Flipping on the light, I’m prepared to slurp copious amounts of water straight from the faucet when I notice the bottle of fancy water sitting on the counter.
Beside it, there’s a bottle of ibuprofen, a sealed toothbrush, and a small tube of toothpaste.
There’s also a note, scribbled in Ethan’s slanted handwriting:
Margot,
There are more toiletries under the sink. Text me if there’s anything else you need.
I twist the cap off the water bottle and pop two pills in my mouth. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I do a double take.
What am I wearing?
Grabbing the heather gray t-shirt, I stare down at the maroon Standford logo on the front.
Ethan got his MBA there, which means I’m not only in his house, but I’m also wearing his clothes.
Great. I don’t remember changing my own clothes last night, and the alternative is too humiliating to even consider.
I love my job so much, but I don’t know how I’ll ever be able face Ethan in the office again after last night, especially if he had to help me change.
Being drunk and overstepping our normal conversational limits is one thing, but my boss seeing me naked is so mortifying that I don’t think I could ever recover from it.
Groaning inwardly, I decide a shower might help me feel somewhat better. The cabinet below the sink has an array of bath products, all distinctly feminine. That’s when I realize where I really am: the bathroom that Ethan’s one-night stands must use to freshen up the morning after.
This just keeps getting worse.
I peel off the oversized t-shirt, which grazes my bare knees, and step into the hot shower.
When I’m done, a fluffy white towel and another change of clothing are waiting for me on the bench next to the enormous walk-in shower.
It’s another one of Ethan’s t-shirts and a pair of black sweatpants that drown me even when I cinch the waist as tight as possible.
One last glance in the mirror proves to be a terrible idea. My eyes are still puffy. My skin is still splotchy. And without my normal products, the hair dryer did more harm than good, but there’s nothing I can do to fix that now.
When I find the stairs in Ethan’s mansion of a house, the sound of metal clanking against a bowl leads me straight to his kitchen. Ethan is standing behind the island, cradling a large bowl in one arm and whisking batter with the other.
He glances up, smirking. “There’s the spaghetti monster.”
I have no idea what that means. I don’t think I want to know. All I know is that I really don’t want to think about spaghetti for some reason.
“Don’t say that word,” I groan miserably.
“How about pancakes? Think you can handle that?” he asks.
That word sits a little easier on my stomach, so I nod.
Ethan flashes a smile at me before turning his attention back to the bowl. Whatever transpired last night, he seems unaffected by it. A sweeping but cautious wave of relief washes over me, but I won’t be fully at ease until I know all the details.
Ethan pours the batter into neat circles in the pan. I pull out a barstool and sit across the island from him, chewing the inside of my cheek.
“So,” I say at last, “do I want to know what happened last night?”
Cocking an eyebrow at me, he counters, “I don’t know… do you?”
“Not really but tell me anyway. Just do it quietly,” I say, resting my elbow on the counter and pressing my palm to my throbbing forehead.
“Well, you got very drunk off four paper cups of scotch. If I knew you were such a lightweight, I would have stopped you after the first one. Then you told me a bunch of stuff about your relationship.”
My stomach clenches. Ethan and I have a great personal and professional relationship, and I’d really like to keep it that way.
I don’t need my boss to know the intimate details of my relationship, like the fact that my sex life has been lackluster for a while now, or that I occasionally fake an orgasm just to avoid another argument about what’s wrong with me and why it takes so long for me to climax.
It hits me all at once that figuring out if I said anything embarrassing in front of my boss is one of many problems I’m waking up with.
There’s also the demise of my four-year relationship and the logistical nightmare that’s bound to follow.
One of us needs to move out. We need to divide our stuff. Tell our families, our friends.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. One problem at a time…
“Oh god. What did I say?” I ask cautiously, head still buried in my hand.
“Don’t worry, nothing bad. Just a very spirited retelling of what happened at the restaurant.”
Okay, that doesn’t sound great, but it’s certainly not the worst thing I could have said.
“I didn’t want to leave you in the care of your boyfriend…”
“Ex-boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend,” he concedes. “So, I brought you here to sleep it off. You were in no state to have a civilized discussion with anyone. Although, you did yell at one of the larger office plants on the way to the elevator. Apparently, it is a pretentiously verdant little fucker.”
I raise my head with considerable effort. “I know exactly which plant you’re talking about, and I stand by that statement.”
“Well, props on your drunken vocabulary. You’re very verbose when drunk. I’ve never heard you talk so much.”
“Great,” I say dryly. “Is that it?”
“Nope,” he replies, looking amused. “When we got home, I made spaghetti and you said the sauce tasted ‘spicy like a bumblebee,’ which implies that you know what bumblebees taste like. I’m looking forward to hearing that story later. Then you threw up.”
I groan and bury my face in both hands. “In your kitchen?”
“No, you made it to the bathroom just in time.”
A memory forces its way into my brain, reviving my nausea. “You didn’t witness that, did you?”
“I did, actually. Someone had to hold your hair back.”
Yep, that’s the memory. Ethan’s hand gathering my hair at the base of my skull while I threw up the spaghetti he made for me. I groan again, more miserably this time.
“It’s fine,” Ethan says. “I don’t mind puke. I’ve cleaned up a lot of it.”
“Were you in a frat or something?” I ask into my hands, my palms muffling the words.
He laughs and flips a pancake over. “Something like that.”
Another question begs to be answered, one so humiliating that I’m already preparing myself to flee in shame. Pancakes be damned.
“You didn’t, um, help me change, did you?”
Ethan avoids looking straight at me. His Adam’s apple bobs under the light dusting of stubble on his throat before he speaks. “No, I figured you could handle that on your own. Looks like you managed okay.” He glances at the t-shirt that I’m wearing.
Phew…
But my relief is short-lived when Ethan continues, “But I should probably disclose that I saw your bra.”
Kill me now. May the gods collectively strike me dead on this very spot if I ripped my shirt off for some reason in front of my boss.
“I found it in the hallway this morning. So, while I have seen your bra, I haven’t actually seen you wearing it.”
Something that looks almost like embarrassment flashes over Ethan’s face then quickly fades. He clears his throat and places two pancakes on a plate, passing it to me.
Flee in shame! Flee in shame! my brain screams at me.
Normally, I would listen, but the promise of pancakes keeps me rooted in place. When Ethan slides a bottle of maple syrup across the counter—the good stuff, not the cheap, sugary garbage they use at most restaurants—I know I’m not going anywhere.
Still, I owe him an apology. Instead of smothering the pancakes in syrup and stuffing them into my face, I straighten up and force myself to meet Ethan’s gaze.
“Ethan, I’m so sorry about last night. I’m beyond embarrassed.”
His eyes flick up to mine, holding my gaze as he shakes his head. “Don’t be, Margot. You’re allowed to have a bad night, especially given the circumstances. Breakups are rough. Besides, I’ve had way worse nights than that.”
I cast a doubtful glare his way as I spear a bite of pancake on my fork. “What could possibly be worse than having to take care of your sad, drunk assistant on a Friday night?”
Ethan laughs as he drizzles a concerningly small amount of syrup over his pancakes. “Do you want a list?”
“Yes, actually.”