Page 1 of Something Borrowed

Chapter

One

Rafferty

I come awake slowlyto three realisations. First, my head is pulsing like a tiny goblin is trying to bang its way out of my skull. Second, if I move, I might very well vomit. Third, someone’s long body is hot against my back and an arm is resting over my waist.

I freeze. Has someone broken into my flat to cuddle me?

I’m pondering the fact that I’ve had weirder things happen over the years, when a deep snore ruffles my hair.

I force my eyes open and immediately throw up my arm as a shield against the nuclear blast currently detonating outside the window. After a moment, when I feel more capable of dealing with the sun, I drop my arm and look over my shoulder.

There’s a man behind me. I don’t panic, because this is a regular occurrence. I examine his face, trying to remember who he is.

He’s slim with red hair that falls over his eyes, and I vaguely remember dancing at a club last night and drinking shots.Somany shots.

I swallow hard to relieve my nausea and taste tequila on my tongue.

“Fuck,” I whisper plaintively.

When no one comes to help me, I lie still for a minute or so, waiting bravely for death. It’s quiet here and seems like a good enough place to pop my clogs. And that’s when I have a fourth realisation. It slams into my brain like a tennis racket in the face—a tennis racket wielded by Venus Williams.

“Ohshit,” I shout, jumping out of bed. I catch my foot in the duvet and nearly faceplant but manage to steady myself on the dresser. “Bollocks,” I hiss.

The man in the bed stirs. He opens his eyes, blinks, and then gives me a lazy smile. “Hey, babe. You’re still here.”

I’m equally surprised, but I don’t have time to express it as I search wildly for my clothes. “Oh, god,” I whisper. “I’m so fucked.Fucked, I tell you.”

He rises to a sitting position. “What are you doing, babe?”

Again, with the babe. I’m unsure what I’ve done to earn that endearment, so it makes me rather nervous.

“I'm looking for my clothes,” I mutter and then exclaim triumphantly when I find my jeans. I debate searching for my underwear, but this is a Category One emergency, so commando it is. At this stage in my life, I’ve been commando more than a member of His Majesty’s special armed services.

“Oh no, don’t go.” The man gives me a pretty smile. “I was going to make you breakfast.”

I pause and put my hand to my stomach, swallowing hard. “No breakfast, thank you,” I whisper.

He pouts and settles back in the bed. “Still, there’s no rush. We can have a lazy morning and maybe go out for breakfast later. What are you doing now?”

I glance back. “Looking for my shirt.”

“In my rubbish bin?”

“It’s been in a lot wilder places.”

He snorts. “I bet it has, naughty boy.”

I exclaim in triumph when I finally find the shirt. For some reason, it’s in his window box. I gingerly pull the now-damp item of clothing back into the room. It smells of rain, tequila, and poor decisions.

“You can wear one of mine, silly,” the man says, jumping out of bed. He rummages in a drawer and pulls out a T-shirt. “Here,” he says, tossing it to me.

“Thank you.” I pull it on distractedly. “Have you seen my phone?”

“I think it’s in the lounge,” he offers, leaning naked against the dresser. “I like seeing you in my clothes.”

I ignore this statement and his rather alarming tone of voice and race into the living room with him following me. I nearly fall over an empty wine bottle that’s lying on the carpet. “Ouch,” I say, rubbing my foot and watching the bottle roll across the floor to join two more. “Did we have a visit from James Hetfield last night?”

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