Page 74 of False God

I’m not hungover, justextremelysleep-deprived.

“Sorry I’m late,” I announce, tucking a stray strand of hair behind one ear.

I finger-combed it the best I could in the reflective doors of the elevator on the ride up to the top floor, but I couldn’t do much about the smears of last night’s makeup still on my face. I had done a terrible job of washing it off before bed, half delirious from all the dopamine swimming through my system.

Self-conscious about my bedraggled appearance—I look walk-of-shame chic without the chic—I head toward the breakfast buffet that’s set up by the windows. At least my dress covers the bites and bruises scattered across my breasts and marking my inner thighs.

Each step is a reminder of the burn between my thighs.

It’s a good sore. A satisfied sore. Anoticeablesore.

I’d thought I’d learned what sex was like a while ago. Mostly because that’salwayswhat it’s been like. But what I’d thought was awesome, occasionally amazing, has now been relegated to a solid B. Not even a B-plus. AB.

And I’m a little mad at Charlie and his A game, honestly.

He set a new standard I’m not sure where to find again. Maybe it’s British men? Aside from a fling in college with a French foreign exchange student, all the other guys have been American.

That’s a better theory than it just being … him.

Chloe, Fran, and Bridget descend on me like vultures as soon as I take a seat on the couch with my full plate. The tug of lace against sensitive skin makes me squirm as I settle against the cushions.

“How was dinner?”

“Why didn’t you answer any of my voice messages?”

“Holy shit, did you hook up with him?”

My best friends toss questions at me rapid-fire.

I take a long gulp of coffee, then answer, “Dinner was good. I overslept and haven’t checked my phone yet. And … yeah, I did.”

Fran squeals as soon as I answer her question.

“What’s going on over there?” Gwen calls. “Are you guys gossiping without me?”

Chloe waves a hand in her sister’s direction. “You don’t know him, sis. Focus on your makeup.”

“You mean, focus on just sitting here?” Gwen replies dryly.

“How was it?” Bridget asks, leaning closer.

“How big was it?” Fran has scooted so close she’s practically in my lap.

I take a bite of cantaloupe. “It’s Chloe’s wedding day. I don’t think she wants to hear about my sex life.”

“Actually, I do,” Chloe tells me. “I went to a dinner with Theo’s work friends, and all the girlfriends-slash-wives got drinks after. A few shots later, one of them said she hooked up with Charles Marlborough a couple of years ago, and it was the best night of her life.”

“Her poor boyfriend-slash-husband,” I say.

Also, that’s not encouraging to my preferred theory.

My friends all look at me expectantly, none of them indicating they’ll let this go.

“There’s a reason I’m sitting right now,” I say. “Everything’s sore. Pilates wasnotadequate preparation for some of the positions.”

Fran’s jaw practically unhinges. “Thatgood?”

“You guys are definitely gossiping without me!” Gwen shouts.

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