Page 40 of Not Just a Trick Play

As he reaches for me, probably to try to save the day, I wrench the toothbrush out of my throat and hold it up, warding him off. I’d rather do my dying in private, thank you very much.

“Would you mind?” I gasp, striving for a tone of offended dignity while angling my body away from him and trying to cover up with the other, grateful for once for my small chest.

He freezes. But he doesn’t leave, just examines me again. Once he’s sure I’m not on the brink of death, he confirms, “You’re meeting Yvonne. My sister Yvonne?”

I clear my throat, still hoarse from the toothbrush trauma. “Yes, she messaged yesterday, inviting me to brunch. Also, have you never heard of privacy?” I grumble, snapping the curtain shut with unnecessary force.

The next revelation floats over the plastic. “She’ll kill me if she finds out I hooked up with another one of her friends.”

I poke my head around the flimsy barrier. At least he’s wearing boxers now. “This happens a lot?”

“No!” His hand drifts to the back of his neck. “Not exactly,” he mumbles. I skewer him in place with a silent order to keep talking. “It’s just that…sleeping with people they know causes unnecessary drama. They don’t like it.”

I let that tidbit sink in. “I see.” A second later, I tip my chin at the door. Finally, he gets the message and departs.

While I didn’t think he was a virgin by any means, especially given how we met and his more recent demonstration in bed, the notion that he routinely sleeps with his sisters’ friends makes my stomach pitch. And right this minute, one such sister is lurking downstairs. Bollocks.

In a flash, I’m yelling, “Hold on!” I want him gone, but not at the risk of stumbling into Yvonne.

Grabbing a towel, I pat myself dry before knotting it under my arms. I wriggle into jeans hanging on a hook behind the door—foresight hadn’t extended to bringing any of my Tesco-issued knickers inside with me. It’s not the only lack of foresight I’ve shown recently, is it?

Jake, by some miracle, has strayed only as far as the edge of the bed, idly scrolling through his phone. He glances up with a dry, “You yelled?”

Well, I’m not about to indulge that uppity tone. I rush to my suitcase, grab the first thing I touch, a blue vest top, and slip it over my head. Only then do I let the towel fall. Good lord, I’d hate to be my housekeeping service right now. I snatch my purse and coat off the floor they ended up on last night, step into my shoes, and stride to the door, pausing to issue a stern, “Stay here while I deal with Yvonne.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Jake says, giving me a mock salute.

God help us both if he can’t follow orders.

I’m stillfinger-combing my hair as I stumble into the lobby. I spot Yvonne sitting at a cluster of chairs across the check in area and weave through a maze of guests trying to get their rooms, with a series of “Pardon me,” narrowly avoiding collision with a man and his rebellious trolley bag.

When Yvonne sees me, she cuts through the bustling crowd, the billowing tails of her long green cardigan mimicking the cape of an urban vigilante.

She wraps me in a tight hug. As she pulls back, her gaze narrows on my neck. “Is that a hickey?”

My blood goes cold. Bloody hell, did the manmarkme? “No.” I retreat a step, my hand flying to my chest.

“You got laid last night.”

Her statement rings with the power of the queen’s proclamation. Or the king, these days, I suppose. “Shh!” I scan the lobby, hoping no one else has overheard.

She waits expectantly.

“No.” My denial holds as much backbone as a soggy biscuit.

Skeptical brows raised, she steps back and launches into a bottom-to-top assessment of findings: “Flushed cheeks.” Up goes a wagging plum-tipped finger. “Swollen lips.” A second joins the lineup. “Bed hair.” Number three. She squints. “Sparkly eyes.” A pinky makes its debut. Finally, her thumb unfurls, concluding in a jazz-handed accusation: “Ergo, sex.”

“Do people really say ‘ergo’?” I ask, attempting to change the subject.

“It’s an American thing. Trust me,” she dismisses. “Plus, you reek of luuurve.”

My breath sticks in my throat. “I do?” Didn’t I just shower?

She cranes her neck, trying to peer over my shoulder, gaze glinting with the glee. “So, where is he?”

My body stiffens. It’s dreadful enough that she can tell I slept with someone, but the real horror would be her spotting Jake and connecting the dots.

I beckon her, already stalking for the exit. “Aren’t we late for brunch?”

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