Page 70 of The Worst Guy Ever
One day this will all end and I’ll be a shrivelled up old shrew with nothing and nobody. That’s not the life I want for myself. I want… well, I don’t bloody know. How am I supposed to know? What does a good life look like when you’re someone who has to do it all on their own?
The only thing that’s certain in my life right now is that I want this promotion, and I’m going to work my arse off for it. It’s a big step up. Professionally I’m ready, but personally, I think I need to whip things into shape. That means no more distractions, no more energy drains, and absolutely no more thinking about Rob’s delicious dick, thoughts of which keep unhelpfully racing through my head. Memories of the weight of it in my hand, of me straddling him, the incredible sensation of feeling so fucking full.
Stop it, brain.
“Are you feeling better?” I ask Megan. “I should have stayed with you, I’m sorry.”
“It’s over with Max,” she says, softly. “Properly over.”
Oh, God, I didn’t see that coming.I mean, I did, and of course it’s over. It was over the moment he left to go back to his wife who he said he was separated from, but it’s not Megan’s fault she couldn’t see through his philandering ways. She always wants to see the best in everyone.
“Babe, I’m so sorry.” I wrap my arms around her. “Shall I book a flight to Australia and kick his arse? I’ll do it right now. I’ve got a lot of anger to get rid of.”
“Shall we do an angry clean?” she laughs, and it sounds like the perfect remedy to our blues.
Kara leaves, and Megs and I get to work cleaning and tidying with shouty punk rock turned up loud. I spend the rest of the evening overhauling my life. I tidy my bedroom, throw out a bunch of old makeup and skincare products, return all my books to the bookcase, dust, vacuum, and change my bedding.
I shower and slather every inch of my skin in moisturiser, trying not to think about the way Rob massaged me last night. That heady mix of delicate caresses and firm strokes. The way he slipped his fingers into my hair to soothe the tension at the base of my skull. Some kind of wizardry that lit up every nerve in my body.
Slipping in between fresh sheets I delete all my dating apps, which haven’t gotten much use lately anyway. Instagram goes next. There will be no more stalking Lawrence, but then I remember I need it for work so I re-install it but set a limit so I can’t use it after 10pm.
I hit play on a meditation, and pull an eye-mask on, all set for the best sleep of my life, but the second I lay back against freshly plumped pillows, my phone beeps.
Knob:I’m glad we got that out of our systems. You’re a good friend, Hattie.
Is he fucking joking?This absolute bastard. He’s wheedled himself so deep into all of my systems I feel like I’m wearing his skin and breathing his air.
Friends?Is he insane?
I can’t be friends with him now. I don’t even think I can be in the same room as him knowing how much I’m craving his touch.
I hate him. Hate him for being so hot, and so eager, and so good to me. I’ve never been with anyone with his confidence. Nobody has ever been so attentive and encouraging and committed to my pleasure. If sex was like that every time, I’d never leave the house, and the only way it could be like that every time is if…
No, no, no.
It’s a bad idea.
I pull my eye-mask back on refuse to even finish the thought.
It would never work, and I would hate myself even if it did.
Chapter 30
Rob
Thiswasnotsupposedto happen. When I first met her I figured we’d hook up and carry on with our lives.
But you don’t forget a woman like Hattie Buchanan.
I’m not supposed to be sitting in work meetings daydreaming about the way she tastes. Or reading her old texts in bed and wishing I could ask what she’s up to. Or reaching for her when I wake up. When I find the other side of my bed empty I have to push down a longing I’ve never felt before.
She hasn’t replied to any of my messages this week, and I would know if she had because I’ve been checking constantly.
At work I’ve had a record number of patients referred for assessment this week, each with wildly differing needs. It’s been a real test of my skills, and the rest of the team, as we work together to come up with the best plan for each patient. I’ve done my best to keep my head in the game but my brain is running on overdrive and all I want to do is eat a mountain of pasta, sleep through Saturday, thrash it out at five-a-side football on Sunday, then see Mum and Auntie Sheila. The last thing I need is someone ringing my doorbell at nine o’clock at night.
Correction, the last thing I need isHattieringing my doorbell at nine o’clock at night, but here she is, standing on my doorstep wearing a very un-Hattie like black trench-coat, heels, and a smile.
“Oh hi, friend,” she says, her casual tone unfamiliar. I think this might be the first time she’s ever greeted me with anything other than a scowl and an insult. I’m happy to see her, of course, but deeply suspicious. I cross my arms and lean against the doorframe.
