Chapter 28 #2
My mind wakes me and points to my bladder.
It’s pitch black in my room and I run my hand to my left to find my touch lamp, but instead I feel a lump beneath the blankets.
Why am I on the wrong side of my bed? My fingers search some more through the softness, expecting to find the big stuffed llama, Obama, that my dad gave me for my twelfth birthday, but instead they hit something warm, firm, muscular, and smooth—oh shiz.
I sit up too fast. My brain shrivels and shrinks inside my head and I lift my hand away from what I hope was Tara’s arm on steroids and press my fingers to my throbbing temples.
I’m not home. I’m at Tara’s. And what the hell am I wearing?
I reach my right hand out into the darkness and come into contact with something cold and gooey.
I bring my finger to my nose and sniff. Espresso and—I lick it.
Yassss! Tiramisu. I force myself to focus while I lick my hand.
I find my phone on the nightstand and press it alive with my wet thumb.
5:15 am. The exact time I get up for school every day.
I turn on my flashlight and direct it down at my chest. Black silk tank top that I know isn’t mine.
I lift the comforter—Tara’s comforter, I realize now.
Matching black silk shorts with a trim of lace.
Fuuuuuck. Slowly I turn the phone light to my left, it fans out like a light house around the room, spinning toward the exact person that I don’t want to see.
He’s on his stomach, his bare shoulders peeking out from the nine million thread count sheets Tara gifted herself.
His hair looks so soft and shiny against the silk pillowcase.
The silk worked its magic on him, too. Because he looks fine.
He stirs a little when my light hits his insanely thick lashes and I quickly turn it and press it against my braless chest. What—the hell—have I done?
There’s no way I slept with him. I wasn’t that drunk.
I had like three glasses of champagne. Maybe four.
I’d remember. I’d definitely remember. And my lady parts don’t feel any different.
They aren’t rejoicing with a chorus or whispering Hallelujah to the sky.
I rack my already racked brain for memories of post primi piatti. Shit. I don’t remember.
I scurry around the room like a three-footed mouse, grabbing any clothes I can find on the floor, tripping over throw pillows as I go.
I’ve got like three items in my grip, so I snatch up the tiramisu from the nightstand, tiptoe into the hall, and shut the door softly behind me.
With the clothes pressed to my chest and the plate of orgasm between my fingers, I walk silently toward the bathroom, my bladder screaming louder than the base drum pounding in my head.
I drop the clothes on the floor, flick on the light switch, squint my eyes enough to survive the onslaught of light, and drop onto the porcelain throne like it might disappear at any moment.
As I take care of business and nibble on a ladyfinger drenched in espresso, I force my aching brain to concoct an exit plan.
I had one gosh-darned job. Stay away from Jeff Harrison.
Yet, somehow, I failed. So, there is only one thing left to do. The mature thing. Run.
When I’m dressed and there is no evidence that the tiramisu ever existed, I make my way down the hall toward the soft orange glow that streams through the wall of glass in Tara’s living room. The rising sun turns the skyline black like—
“Buongiorno, bella sorella.”
Shit.
“Bon-e—” I stop. Did I just say boner in Italian? I try again, “Bone DiGiorno, Marcello.”
“Your blouse—” He points to Jeff’s button-down that I scooped off the floor. I look down, realizing I skipped like six buttons.
“Oops,” I say, attempting a smile. My lips won’t stretch without cracking.
“Let me bring you some espresso,” he says, folding the Italian paper he was reading and laying it beside him.
“Marcello, do you think you could help me?”
I have to squint again to protect my eyes from the blinding smile he gives me as he nods emphatically. This man is the literal best.
“Certo. We are family soon, no?” He gestures with his hand for me to go on.
I exhale through my nose. Swallow my pride, nearly choking.
“Will you help me get out of here before Jeff and Tara wake up?”
His eyes twinkle like a Disney princess’s and his grin widens.
“I see. I see,” he says, nodding. “This is not a problem.”
This is definitely a problem. But his words ease my frantic thoughts.
The plan was to wait for Jeff until after his interview, drive home together.
Maybe have some breakfast with T while he’s off wooing a potential future employer.
But the plan went out the window the moment I woke up in a negligée and not my “Who runs the world? Girls” t-shirt.
He continues, “You get the espresso. I will get your luggage. I will drive you to the station? When Tara awakens, I will explain.”
“Marcello, thank you. You have no idea—”
He holds up his hand and waves me away.
“It is nothing. Niente,” he says, patting my shoulder as he passes.
It is everything. Facing Jeff right now—after whatever the hell happened last night—I wouldn’t be able to handle that and this hangover.
I’m never drinking again—especially in his presence, if I’m ever in his presence again.
Every time I think of him, my brain goes fuzzy and my stomach starts bouncing on a trampoline.
I’m in way over my head and now I might have tied a brick to my ankle last night.
I pour as much espresso as I can into one of Tara’s travel mugs and head for the door, grateful to see Marcello already there with my suitcase and his gleaming white teeth.
“Pronto?” he asks.
I nod even though I have no idea what he said.
“Andiamo, bella sorrella,” he tells me, opening the door, and this one I know.
Andiamo, Marcello. Andiamo me the hell out of here—far, far away from the sleeping man-beauty.