Chapter Four
Zadie
My head was a vise, crushing my brain, muffling sounds, and making me want to vomit.
God, I’d never been so hungover.
Then again, I didn’t have much to compare it to. I barely ever drank, and this was a solid reminder why.
The bed shifted.
Shit. I breathed through a wave of nausea, my heart racing, as I cracked my eyes open and prayed. Please, please don’t let me be in a stranger’s bed.
Nothing about the room was familiar. Except the artwork on the wall. It was the painting I’d done for Chantel’s birthday last year.
I was in her guest room. Not the one I’d haphazardly made my own—the one with my overflowing suitcase and a stack of newly purchased self-help books on the nightstand—this was the smaller one across the hall.
How the hell had I ended up in here?
My head spun as I pushed myself upright and turned toward my bedmate, hoping I’d find Chantel fast asleep beside me.
Nope. My stomach lurched.
That was a man.
My sleeping partner had his back to me, but even through blurred vision, I could tell he was tall and built of pure, lean muscle. His dark hair was sleep-tousled, thick waves curling against the back of his neck. If I could’ve buried my face in those waves and slept for days, I probably would have.
But sleep was out of the question because the man beside me was Chantel’s cousin. The handsome guy I’d gotten loaded with and told all my pitiful secrets to.
God, I’d told him about Sean. Sure, I’d kept the details to myself, but I hated talking about Sean.
Sean, who I’d followed from Calgary to Montreal because he’d promised me the world, and I’d been desperate enough to believe him.
Sean, who’d left me in a city where I didn’t know a soul, then waltzed back in three months later like nothing had happened.
Sean, who I’d let back into my life because apparently one round of humiliation wasn’t enough.
Asshole Sean, who’d left again the morning after using me as his human fuck-doll.
Here I was, four days later, crashing at my best friend’s new house in Copper Ridge, trying to convince myself that starting over for the third time in as many years was a fresh start and not a pattern.
Cliché. That was the word thrown around last night.
It totally fit.
I was a walking, talking, living cliché, and it sucked to have to admit it. Talking about it was an uncomfortable exercise in self-deprecation.
But the way Caleb had looked at me felt different from the way men usually did. He wasn’t just seeing hair and tits. Okay, maybe he was seeing that too, but it felt like something more.
I felt understood.
His rib cage fell steadily with each breath, his calm so solid my headache started to dull.
Flashes of memory from last night filtered in, like a tap being turned from a trickle to a flood. Images of the two of us talking and laughing, his blue eyes sharp even in the dim light of the kitchen. The way he’d smiled at me like I was the most interesting person he’d ever met.
That smile had turned me to a puddle on the floor. It lit up his entire face and was somehow both wicked and genuine at the same time.
He was so real. So honest. So fucking hot.
And I’d kissed him.
Holy shit.
Yes, I’d done that. It wasn’t just a dream. I could still feel the heat of it on my lips.
Except everything beyond that searing moment was blank. I couldn’t remember any of it. Only how his mouth had moved against mine like he already knew exactly what I needed.
How did we end up in bed together? Did we have sex?
I was still wearing my shirt, bra, and underwear. My jeans were on the floor. And a pleasant ache pulsed between my thighs. But I couldn’t tell if it was from thinking about the hot man beside me and the kiss we’d shared, or from whatever happened after.
Shouldn’t I be able to tell?
My gaze moved over him again, inspecting him closely.
He was wearing the same clothes as last night. His shirt clung to his broad shoulders and brought memories of my arms being wrapped around him. Although, I couldn’t place that memory.
Was it before or after leaving the party? Were our clothes on or off?
Fuck, I had to get the hell out of here. Now.
Not only was Caleb my best friend’s cousin, but he was her younger cousin. Much younger.
It didn’t matter how attractive I found him or how grounded and self-assured he was. Whatever happened between us—a real connection or an alcohol-induced lapse in judgment—it was a mistake. One I couldn’t afford.
As quietly as possible, I made my way out of bed and swiped my pants off the floor. Tiptoeing to the door, I looked back to make sure I hadn’t woken him.
Big mistake. I kept promising myself I wouldn’t make any more, but fuck, I was hopeless.
He’d rolled onto his back, one arm flung above his head, his face turned toward the spot I’d been lying.
He was lean and edgy, a thin chain resting against his collarbone, small gold hoops in each ear, and a tattoo trailing down his forearm.
Yet somehow, even with the ink and the earrings and the messy hair and the jaw that could cut glass, he looked honest and caring in his sleep.
Perfectly constructed to make me fall for him.
But he looked a hell of a lot younger, too. Maybe it was the hair that had fallen across his forehead or his clean-shaven face. Or maybe it was just my guilt. I had enough of it stored away.
With that guilt as my fuel, I slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind me.
I needed Chantel. She was the only person who could talk me off a ledge like this—the same way she’d talked me through every other disaster I’d brought on myself. After Sean had left me the first time, she’d been the one to pull me out of my dark spiral.
It was the same kind of darkness she’d clawed herself out of only months before we met. We’d both dated assholes. That was the foundation of our entire friendship.
The difference was, Chantel had been smart enough to ditch hers. I’d let mine come back.
She’d warned me and then stood by me anyway. Even when she wasn’t happy about it, even when she could see exactly how it would end, she never walked away. Chantel knew everything about me. Every ugly, humiliating detail.
She’d always had my back, and I wasn’t about to start hiding things from her now.
I crept upstairs, trying to avoid the steps that creaked, and called out softly before stepping into Chantel’s space. Her bed was made, the white duvet smooth and untouched, everything in its usual pristine order. She hadn’t come home.
Where the hell was she?
Back downstairs, I ducked into my room, fumbled for my phone, and dialed her number.
“Morning,” she answered, her voice way too loud. “How shitty are you feeling?”
“I think I might have slept with your cousin.”
Her laughter exploded in my ear, cranking up both the guilt and the pounding in my skull.
“Why are you laughing? It’s not funny.”
“Oh, cocotte…yes, it is.” I could practically hear her wiping tears. “Trust me, with the condition you were in, it definitely didn’t happen.”
“You don’t know that.” I sank onto the bed I’d already started thinking of as mine. “I have a very distinct memory of licking his neck. I’m pretty sure I didn’t dream it. Well, mostly sure anyway. And I woke up in the other bedroom this morning.”
“So?”
“So...” I stared at the closed door, picturing the sleeping man just across the hall. “He was in bed with me.”
Her laughter resumed, clearly at my expense.
Normally, making Chantel laugh would’ve been the highlight of my day. When she was happy, I was happy. But right now, I felt like I was on the wrong side of a very sick and twisted joke.
And it was pissing me off.
“Chantel,” I hissed, keeping my voice low in case he could hear me through the walls. “Stop laughing at me and tell me if I should worry about him. Please.”
“I’m laughing because I can guarantee you, without a single shred of doubt, you did not have sex with Caleb. I don’t doubt that you probably tried, but he’s an angel. He wouldn’t have slept with you when you were wasted. Not unless you somehow convinced him to get drunk with you.”
“I can’t remember, but I know I kissed him, and it wasn’t one-sided.” I ran my toes over the thick area rug, willing myself to focus on anything other than my churning stomach.
“Mon dieu, then I have no idea what happened between the two of you, and I’m not sure I want to.”
“God, I know…I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re human. If we can’t mess up from time to time, what’s the point? Besides, I really doubt anything happened. Why do you think I left you with him instead of putting you in a cab myself? I trust him to be sensible.”
“Oh.” A strange sense of disappointment settled over me.
“Oh?” Chantel mocked. “Did you want to have sloppy sex with my baby cousin?”
“What? No.”
“You do. You totally want to bone him.”
“My God, Chantel, please never use the word bone again.” I forced a tight laugh.
“He’s a good guy, Zadie.” Her humor faded, her tone turning serious. “A really good guy. But he’s young, and he’s got his own problems. Plus, you don’t need a man—you just got rid of the last one, remember?”
Like I could ever forget. “Honestly, I was just worried that I’d drunkenly seduced him. I don’t need you to make fun of me for being a cougar. How old is he anyway?”
“Old enough to decide for himself.” She paused, the sounds of the hospital filtering through the line. “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m picking up another shift, but I’ll be home later. You can confess all your perverted fantasies over dinner.”
“I don’t have any fantasies.” My throat felt tight, and my voice was too high-pitched. “Other than a shower and something to absorb the alcohol still drowning my system.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. I’ll see you soon, cocotte.”
Phone in hand, I sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the silence pressing in. There was no sound from across the hall, which meant he was probably still asleep.
I could shower. Pretend everything was fine. Go about my day in this borrowed room, in this borrowed house, in this borrowed town and act like last night hadn’t let something loose inside me.
The bathroom was right across the hall. I grabbed clean clothes and moved quietly, not looking at the guest room door, not thinking about the man behind it, not remembering the taste of his mouth or the way he’d looked at me like I mattered.
Once I was behind the locked door, I stripped off my alcohol-scented clothes and stepped into the shower. But the warm spray did nothing to ease my throbbing body or brain. Or my aching heart.
As the water rushed over me, it mixed with the tears streaming down my face.
I wasn’t crying over Sean. It hadn’t even been a week, but I really was glad to be rid of him. My tears weren’t self-pity, either. I’d had enough of that last night. Hell, I wasn’t even crying because of the pain from the wretched hangover.
No, these tears were from my brief encounter with a thing called hope.
It was something I’d given up on right around the time I gave up on love. Last night, maybe even a bit this morning, I’d let myself feel a glimmer.
Hope surfaced when Caleb smiled at me, hung on while he listened, tried to dig in when I kissed him. But when I woke up, sobered up, and recognized the ridiculous impossibility, hope didn’t just die…
I killed it.
Because keeping it alive would only be another mistake. And honestly, how many could I make in a lifetime? In one night?
I seriously hoped Chantel was right and I hadn’t made as many as I feared.
With any luck, Caleb would wake up like me—regretfully hungover, with little to no recollection of getting that way. He’d go back to his life, and I could go on pretending like nothing happened.
Mistakes forgotten.
Hope left dead, right where it belonged.
Beside the dried-up corpse of love.