NINE
I wake up alone.
The sun is already slicing through the cracks in the blinds, hitting the white sheets.
Which means I broke one of my rules.
No sleepovers.
Ever.
One-night stands don’t get spooning privileges. They don’t get to see me unconscious and drooling. I either sneak out before their REM cycle finishes, or – if we’re at mine – I pass them their clothes before their head hits the pillow and say, ‘See ya later.’
Luke – the emotionally unavailable outback god with absurdly muscled forearms – seems to have caused some kind of internal malfunction, because instead of leaving in the middle of the night, I passed out. Mid-spoon.
Disgraceful.
I swing my legs off the bed and immediately regret it when my vision tilts.
My dress – my soaked, wrinkled, morally compromising dress – is still crumpled on the bathroom floor.
Maybe it’s a metaphor. I pull it on with the speed and efficiency of someone in witness protection and creep towards the door.
Still no sign of him.
Good. I can salvage this.
I slip back into my room, then pause. The bed is still untouched.
So, unless Abbey wandered into the bush to become one with nature, she’s probably holed up with Dex. Or Dax. Or whatever his name is.
Shower. Shower now.
I cradle my head under the warm stream, feeling the self-loathing settle into my bones somewhere between the ache in my thighs and the beginnings of what might be my worst hangover yet.
I am not twenty-two, and my body is letting me know that. Loudly.
After scrubbing away every trace of the evening from my skin, I pull on denim shorts and a white t-shirt. Hair: air-dried. Make-up: non-existent. Mood: one strong coffee away from functional.
I make my way over to the main house where the early risers are already buzzing around the kitchen – some recovering from the aftermath of last night’s open bar, some just terrifyingly perky.
There’s a spread of food on the dining table – fruit, pastries, cold meats – and I grab a croissant before making a beeline for the butler’s pantry where the Nespresso machine is waiting. My sanctuary.
I drop a pod in the machine, and press start like my life depends on it. ‘Come to Mama,’ I whisper to the machine. It purrs in response.
‘Morning.’
The voice sends a current straight down my spine.
I turn.
Luke is dressed in dark jeans, a navy button-down shirt and work boots. A fine layer of red dirt dusts his arms and collar like he’s been wrangling livestock since dawn.
‘Morning,’ I reply. ‘Sleep well?’
‘Not really,’ he confesses with a tired smile.
I take a sip of my coffee as we manoeuvre around each other.
He places his cup under the machine, drops one of the pods in the lid and presses start. The low hum of the machine echoes through the pantry as he leans a hip against the bench and says, ‘What about you?’
I smile. ‘What about me?’
He steps closer. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Not really,’ I lie. We’re both circling each other, waiting to see who’ll break character.
His hand lifts, slow and unhurried, and tucks a damp strand of hair behind my ear as if it’s a thing he’s allowed to do.
As if this is normal. Casual. My eyes flick up to his, and suddenly all the hairs on my arms are on alert.
This is not how the script goes. I do not see my one-night stands in daylight.
I do not have casual kitchen conversations with men whose tongues were between my legs less than eight hours ago.
There’s no manual for this. No chapter called ‘How to Behave While Pretending Your Body Doesn’t Remember Exactly What His Hands Felt Like’.
‘Is that so?’ he says, his voice barely above a whisper. My heart is pounding in my chest as I nod, unable to form any coherent words. I mean, it’s probably best I don’t say anything right now, given my track record.
He waits for my answer, one brow raised, his gaze all heat and hidden meaning.
I give him a tight smile. ‘Yes.’ Another lie.
He leans against the opposite counter, reaching for his coffee. ‘Shame,’ he says, voice still low. ‘You looked pretty relaxed when I left.’
I nearly choke on my croissant.
Luke pushes off the counter. And suddenly, he’s in front of me –
coffee abandoned, dirt-covered collar and all. His hand slides to my waist, his body crowding into mine. The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A recent memory he’s chasing. But then his hands tighten on my hips, his mouth demanding more, and I melt into him – again. Like an idiot.
I place my coffee down blindly, arms slipping around his neck, and let myself get pulled back under.
Because screw it.
It’s only a kiss.
It doesn’t mean anything.
Right?
I feel the ache growing between my legs as Luke’s hands trail down to grab my arse, lifting me up onto the counter. He steps between my thighs, his hand sliding underneath my t-shirt to cup my breast.
‘I can’t stop thinking about last night,’ he whispers, his lips trailing down my neck and nipping at my collarbone.
A throat clears. Loudly.
We pull apart and, leaning against the doorframe in an oversized t-shirt and yesterday’s eyeliner, is Abbey. Arms crossed. Smirk fully loaded.
‘Well, well, well,’ she says, her voice dripping with amusement. ‘Someone got an early start this morning.’
Luke steps back like a gentleman. ‘Coffee?’ he offers, already turning towards the machine.
‘Sure,’ Abbey chirps, all innocence.
While his back is turned, she mouths oh my god to me and does an extremely graphic hip-thrust against the counter stool.
I narrow my eyes. ‘I thought you’d still be passed out in some field.’
She shrugs. ‘Evidently not. Turns out I’m very resilient.’ She accepts her mug with a wink at Luke, who – thankfully – says something about checking the helicopters and makes a hasty exit.
As soon as the door swings shut behind him, Abbey turns to me. ‘You broke your rule.’
I sigh. ‘Don’t remind me.’
‘I must. This never happens.’
‘It was a momentary lapse in judgement. A glitch in the matrix. It won’t happen again.’
‘You say that like rules aren’t meant to be broken.’
‘They’re not.’
‘Some are.’
‘Not mine.’
She nods solemnly. ‘Except the one about not rashing up post- hook-up. Because …’ She gestures at my chest. ‘It’s spreading.’
I yank on my t-shirt. ‘Jesus Christ, am I really breaking out in a rash?’
Abbey laughs. ‘It looks itchy.’
I pull my collar down and check to see if it’s spread past my chest. ‘Maybe I’m allergic to something.’
Abbey scoffs. ‘Yeah, pine nuts and tall blond men.’
I level a glare at her, but she just smiles. ‘Your body’s reacting to being emotionally compromised.’
I hurl a coffee pod at her that hits her in the boob.
‘Ow,’ she says, laughing. ‘Fine. New subject. Let’s talk about the absolute rodeo that was my night.’
‘Dex?’ I ask, raising a brow.
‘Dax,’ she corrects and holds up a finger. ‘Don’t ask. And it was fucking amazing. Rough. Hot. I wore his cowboy hat.’ She gives a low whistle. ‘Men out here? Built different, I’m telling you.’
I mutter, ‘I know.’
She smirks and we lapse into silence, sipping our coffee, pretending everything is fine. But everything is not fine.
Because Luke just kissed me like he wanted to do it again. Like last night wasn’t a one-off. Like I am not, in fact, the emotionally unavailable girl I’ve spent years training to be. And somehow, that thought is worse than the rash spreading on my neck.