Chapter 40 Cornelia
Cornelia
Several drinks, indeed. So many, in fact, that I ended up taking him home, and we couldn’t even wait until we got to my room—I’m fairly certain some of our clothes are still on the lift floor.
Yesterday was absolutely knackering, but in a good way. There was a lot of drinking, sex in the lift, sex in my shower, sex in my bed. Benedict has incredible stamina. He’s even better than what I’d imagined from seeing him on TV, if that’s even possible.
I glance over at him, and he smiles at me. He’s lying beside me on my bed, on top of my white duvet, completely naked. He told me he likes sleeping naked, and I wasn’t about to tell Benedict Glounger not to sleep naked in my bed. Would you to your TV crush?
Like me, he looks half-awake, half-asleep, though leaning more towards the sleep side. I’m considering drifting back off myself.
As I’m about to close my eyes, the door opens, and Anthony enters my room like it’s his.
Benedict reacts instantly, shooting up from the bed and looking around desperately—frantically—for anything to cover himself, ultimately grabbing a pillow.
Luckily, after we had sex, I put on a nightgown, and I’m covered by my duvet and sheets, so I’m fine.
Anthony immediately averts his gaze to the wall, clearly regretting his decision to enter without knocking, while Benedict stands there, looking utterly petrified.
In theory, I’d say we’re a sex-positive household. In reality, however, it’s never fun finding out who your family is banging.
“Hi, I’m Benedict Glounger,” Benedict says to Anthony, as if introductions are appropriate at this moment, offering one hand while using the other to keep the pillow from falling.
My brother looks at the hand for a second but doesn’t take it. “I’m her brother,” Anthony gestures vaguely in my direction before returning his gaze to the wall. “I wanted to let you know I’m leaving for the office in an hour,” he tells me.
Oh, fuck—I completely forgot I was meant to go to the office with him today.
“Okay, I’ll be ready in half an hour at most,” I say.
Anthony nods, turns around, and leaves my room without another word.
I call out after him, “We should really learn how to knock in this house!” But I get no response—not that I was expecting one.
I glance at Benedict Glounger and immediately burst out laughing. I try to stop it by covering my mouth with my hands, but it doesn’t work. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I know I shouldn’t be laughing,” I manage between chuckles. The laughter keeps bubbling up despite my best efforts.
He looks mortified. “Should I be worried I’ve already sealed my fate and he will hate me forever?”
I shake my head a few times before saying, “No, he’s actually really cool, and I’ve seen and heard worse things than what just happened involving him and his girlfriends.”
Anthony has always tried to hide his one-night stands and “girlfriends” from me—tried being the key word. Good intentions, my brother, but let’s just say he doesn’t date the most quiet or discreet girls.
That’s the only reason I ever know he’s seeing someone or that he isn’t gay, as some tabloids have speculated.
He always says that when he’s serious about someone, he’ll introduce them to me, but I suppose no one’s ever made it that far.
That sometimes worries me. One undeniable fact I’ve known all my life is that I am the most important person to my brother.
It’s nice being the most important person to someone, but also a little scary.
What will happen to him when I move out and continue with my life?
It used to worry me a lot. It still does, but a little less now, as I don’t have any immediate plans to go anywhere.
“In that case,” Benedict Glounger says, tossing the pillow he’d been using to cover himself back onto the bed. Then, without missing a beat, he jumps after it, landing on top of me. “He wouldn’t mind me doing this,” he adds with a grin before leaning down and kissing me.
“I think I might need a few more than thirty minutes to get ready,” I murmur against his lips.
He chuckles softly, his breath warm against my skin. “Many more.”
After going for another round, I quickly got ready, but Benedict was still hunting for some of his missing clothes.
Nearly fifty minutes had passed since Anthony barged in, so I told Benedict I would go find my brother to make sure he didn’t leave without me.
I let him know I would either be in Anthony’s home office or the kitchen and gave him directions to find both.
Anthony wouldn’t leave without me, but he’d definitely be irritated about having to wait.
I enter his office, but he isn’t there, so I make my way to the kitchen. I walk in, and there he is, sitting on a barstool at the kitchen island, eating breakfast and looking at something on his phone.
Then I realise Anthony lied about the time he was planning to leave for the office.
He’s incredibly punctual, and if he actually intended to leave in less than ten minutes, there’s no way he’d be sitting here eating breakfast so calmly.
He lied so I wouldn’t be late for the actual time, which is likely in half an hour.
Rude.
I’m about to say something to get Anthony’s attention, as he hasn’t noticed me yet. But then, Benedict walks into the room, fully dressed, with all his missing clothes back on.
“You found them,” I say to him, and that’s when Anthony finally notices me.
He nods. “Yes, they were on the lift.”
I suspected that, but I didn’t tell him. I was enjoying the sight of him naked far too much.
Benedict walks over to where Anthony is, while I stay where I am, frowning. He reaches Anthony, extends his hand, and says, “Hi, I’m—”
“Benedict Glounger, I got that upstairs, but it’s nice meeting you with your clothes on,” Anthony interrupts, shaking his hand a little too hard. “I didn’t introduce myself earlier, though—I’m Anthony Andrew Monroe-Nodrick, Cornelia’s older brother.” His voice is dry.
The tension in the room is palpable. All of this feels a bit awkward—at least for me, but even more so for Benedict. I can see it written all over his face.
He walks towards me and says, “I’d better leave and let you two get on with your day.”
“Do you want me to accompany you to the door?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “There’s no need; I know the way. Can I call you later?”
“Yes, please,” I reply, smiling. This was exactly what I was expecting—after all, that’s why I gave him my phone number at the nightclub yesterday.
He glances back at Anthony as if contemplating something, seems to come to a decision, and leans in to give me a quick kiss before leaving.
“So handsome,” I murmur under my breath once he is out of earshot.
Anthony points towards the door Benedict just walked out of. “May I ask you why?”
“I believe you saw him naked a few minutes ago.” I don’t think I need to explain any further.
He looks at me, confused. “But hasn’t TJ been sleeping over every single day since your birthday?”
“Yes, and?” I say, slightly annoyed.
I was having such a good time, I didn’t need to be reminded of him.
I hadn’t thought about him since I noticed that, when we came out of the cleaning cupboard, he was gone—which was an accomplishment in itself, because even when I don’t want to, my mind seems to wander back to him. As if it’s a factory setting.
“So you two aren’t back together?” Did he really have to ask that? Wasn’t the fact I’d just slept with Benedict answer enough?
“No,” I almost shout. “He slept with my mother.”
Anthony looks slightly uncomfortable and disappointed as I say it—something you’d barely notice unless you knew him as I do.
From his reaction, you’d think it was the other way around, that he’d just found out I slept with my ex, the one who slept with our mother, and that I was now telling him nothing was happening between me and the nice guy who hasn’t done anything wrong.
He gets up from the barstool. “Hate to break it to you, but if you’re looking for men who haven’t slept with your mother, you’ll find there are very few left in London,” he jokes, though it’s probably true.
“I’ll settle for them not having slept with her while we were dating,” I reply.
Anthony looks sad for a second. “I’m going upstairs to get some papers so we can head to the office. And maybe, on the way there, we can talk about raising your standards in men.”
“Haha,” I fake-laugh, not finding his comment funny.
“We’re leaving in about thirty minutes, so be ready.” He picks an apple from the fruit bowl on top of the kitchen island and tosses it at me. “And eat that—and something more,” he adds, walking away.