Chapter 22
Violet
Violet woke up and immediately wished that she were dead.
Her head throbbed, and a ball of blinding pain pulsed behind her right temple.
Her lips were so dry it was an effort to pull them apart to suck in a breath, and her mouth tasted like she had eaten a two-week-old kebab with gone-off mayonnaise.
She tried to lift her head in the dim room, but the room started to spin.
Glancing down her body, she saw that she was completely naked, a corner of a bed sheet draped uselessly across her right hip.
Her right leg was trapped under something heavy. No, her right leg was trapped under someone heavy. And hairy. And oh so very Finn.
Oh god. She lay still and peered through the gloom at the ceiling.
Dragging a hand up to her forehead, she tried to press the headache into submission. Her entire body was a desiccated wreck. She needed to drink a gallon of water, yet she was also desperate for the loo.
Clenching her bladder, she rolled towards the left side of the bed and tried to pull her right leg free, but it was clamped between Finn’s thigh and the bed. Her overfull bladder squeezed painfully with the effort, and Violet bit down on her lip.
Dear God, if you get me out of this, I will stop using your name in vain.
Rolling back onto her back, she reached down and tried to push Finn’s thigh over while pulling her leg free and praying he stayed sound asleep.
She slid her hands under his muscular thigh, getting momentarily distracted by the curve of his bottom into the dimple at the small of his back, then her bladder squealed again.
Lifting and pushing his thigh as best she could, she pulled her knee up towards her, head throbbing, the room starting to spin again with the effort.
Her leg came free, her thigh jumping up into her belly, whacking against her bladder.
‘Oh fuck,’ Violet muttered, trying to cross her legs and angle herself out of bed.
Pushing herself upright using the bedside table, she teetered beside the bed for a moment before staggering through the gloom to find the bathroom.
This suite was far larger than her modest room and filled with obstacles like sofas and chairs, especially designed to keep her from reaching the loo.
She bashed her shin on a coffee table and clipped her hip on the back of a chair as she felt her way around in the near darkness to avoid waking Finn, staggering knock-kneed to keep from wetting herself.
She could make out the faint outline of a door on the wall on the other side of the bed, and she fumbled her way towards it, cool air skimming her overheated body.
A silver-coloured wine bucket lay on its side on the floor, an empty bottle of Prosecco beside it, and she stepped over it.
Oh God—they’d ordered room service, hadn’t they?
Feeling her way along the wall, she found the bathroom door and slipped inside, closing it softly behind her. Groping her way around the sink and up the wall to the mirror, she found the shaving light and flipped it on.
The bright light seared her hungover eyeballs like midday August sun, and she threw her forearm over her eyes.
Holding her arm up like a visor, she pivoted towards the loo and collapsed onto it in relief.
She hadn’t locked the door and was suddenly filled with horror that Finn might walk in on her, but the faint snoring sounds coming from the room reassured her that she wasn’t about to be found naked and hungover on the loo by her nemesis-colleague-turned-lover just yet.
Violet rested her elbows on her knees and dropped her head into her hands.
What had she been thinking? She hadn’t been thinking, she told herself.
That was the problem. She had swapped thinking for Sauvignon Blanc and Prosecco, and the result of that was being huddled on the loo in Finn’s bathroom with the mother-load of all hangovers.
She stood, flushed the loo, wincing at the noise, and hurriedly bent down again over the sink when her stomach lurched, then stilled.
She ran the cold water, grabbing one of the little hotel tooth mugs and drinking four cups, before splashing cold water over her face and much of her torso.
Patting herself dry with a super-soft towel, she surveyed the damage in the mirror.
Her curly-wavy hair was in full frizz on one side of her head and curiously matted down on the other.
The little eye makeup she had worn had all migrated south in the night and settled in thick, smudgy lines in the creases under her eyes.
Said eyes were managing to be both wrinkly and dry-looking, and puffy and fluid-filled all at once.
Dry, pale lips and blotchy skin completed the overall appearance of someone who had recently been freed from a Victorian workhouse because they were now too sick to be useful.
Grabbing a tissue, Violet wiped the black lines from under her eyes, leading to an overall three per cent improvement in how she looked. She needed to get out of here.
Easing open the door, she checked that Finn was still asleep.
He was out cold, his long, lean frame spread-eagled and face down across the bed, one leg hooked up slightly where it had recently covered her own.
She swallowed as snatches of the night before suddenly sprang into her brain.
The feel of his weight on top of her. Pinning her hands above her head.
His teeth nipping down her neck. Her fingers reached for her throat, where his lips had been.
Stop it, she told herself. I have to get out of here.
She crept around the room, feet silent on the plush carpet, poking at the soft, dark shapes on the floor with her toes, trying to find her clothes.
She nearly tripped over her jeans hanging off the arm of a chair and found her bra flung on the corner of the wall-mounted TV.
Her mismatched knickers were nowhere to be seen.
Finding her shirt lying near the door, she shrugged it on.
Violet was now dressed like Donald Duck; clothed on top, naked on the bottom.
She was still clutching her bra, unable to face anything tight around her at all.
Finn stirred on the bed, shifting his position.
She held her breath and froze in place, clutching her balled-up jeans in front of her to preserve her modesty.
With a long, deep sigh, Finn settled back to sleep, and Violet started to breathe again just in time to stop herself from passing out.
Her headache had shifted and was now front and centre between her eyes, and her eyeballs felt like they were bleeding from the sockets.
Pushing her hair away from her face, she swore she was never drinking again.
Not even a cheeky margarita at brunch. Not even a liqueur chocolate.
Giving up on her underwear and assuming it had most likely ended up under the bed, Violet balanced on one leg like a flamingo with vertigo, swaying wildly as she shoved her feet into her jeans.
A tinny chirrup sound came from somewhere near the TV. A message. The chirrup noise sounded again. Violet hurried towards the sound before it could wake Finn. Her phone was on the floor, and she lunged for it before it could make another peep.
We’re grabbing breakfast before the coach leaves, read the message from Chloe. They have waffles today! Want me to save you some? x
Violet’s stomach heaved at the thought of food. She glanced at the time on her phone. 08:31.
Shit.
The crew bus was leaving in an hour.
None for me thanks, still packing! x she replied.
Chloe sent a winky face back. Oh, good God. Was that a cheery, Okay, see you later, winky face, or an ohhhh, so that’s what we’re calling it, is it? winky face.
Violet realised she had no idea if anyone had seen them leave together the night before.
But she had no time to ponder this. All that mattered now was getting out of here and making it back to her room where she could collapse and hide and wallow in her shame and fret endlessly about who knew and who had seen what and what a fool she had made of herself and how this might be an HR matter and if only she hadn’t had that wine she would still have a job.
Balling up her bra, she pushed it down into her pocket before shoving her sock-less feet, which were surprisingly cold relative to the inferno tearing through the rest of her body, into her boots and lacing them haphazardly.
When she was dressed just well enough to leave, she stopped near the door and glanced back.
The room was still in half-darkness, soft morning light filtering through the gap in the curtains.
Finn slept on, his right arm stretched out across the now-empty side of the bed where she had lain not long ago.
Through the pounding in her head and the roiling in her stomach, snatches of the night before pushed through.
How they had torn at each other’s clothes.
How he had checked with her that she wanted to keep going.
The way he had pushed his hands into her hair, so he could look into her eyes.
How they had finally made it from the floor to the bed, and Finn had ordered Prosecco only for it to arrive when they were halfway through round two.
How, as they both lay back panting, he had rolled over and kissed his way down from her forehead, down the side of her neck to her collarbone, then pulled her into him, folding her body into his before they both fell asleep, the top of her head nestled under his chin, the steady and slowing rhythm of his heart pulsing against her back, lulling her to sleep.