Page 11 of Fangs for the Memories
Her phone slides out from under the pillow. The screen is filled with notifications. For a moment, I pause, considering whether to pry or not.
Instead I place it on the nightstand where she can see it if she wants it.
I will get to the bottom of my little mystery. This little human who smells like she was sent by the gods, who feels like the softest of silk, and who piques all of me far more than any female has ever done.
And I am absolutely certain this will be the last night Grace sleeps alone.
Grace
Iwake up feeling like hell. Of course I do, I am in hell. A hell of my own making when I thought it was a good idea to get roaring drunk.
I roll over with a groan, wishing it wasn’t so bright before the vague recollections of last night seep in.
The bar, the wine and the…man?
I sit up quickly and wish I hadn’t as my head pounds with what is going to be a spectacular hangover. Gnawing, instant, sweat-inducing horror hits me…I couldn’t have brought him to my room?
I couldn’t! I’m the one who was jilted. I don’t get to do something as stupid as a one-night stand straight out of my disastrous relationship.
Anxiety seeps away when I see the place is how I left it last night. There’s no extra pants, shoes, or dark suits in evidence. No sign anyone was here at all.
And I’m still fully clothed, save for my boots, which sit neatly side by side at the end of the bed.
In my present state of mind, I’m struggling to even think of any man as honorable. Could it be I imagined Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome?
I struggle into the bathroom where the light makes me wince, and I attempt to avoid my reflection. It doesn’t work. Hell has definitely caught up with me. My pale face, far too thin from all the pre-wedding dieting, stares back at me. My eyes are red-rimmed and my hair’s a bird’s nest.
It hits me I can’t even get a mysterious stranger to stay the night. I am a total failure.
I make it to breakfast with twenty minutes to spare. I’m not hungry, but I need coffee mainlined into me, and if there’s one thing the Hungarians do well (other than the wine, but we won’t talk about that), it’s coffee.
When I get up for the breakfast buffet, the blonde I vaguely remember from last night sidles up to me.
“I saw you with him last night,” she says in accented English, although the accent isn’t Hungarian.
“Who?” I ask because my brain simply hasn’t yet had enough caffeine.
“You need to take care, Miss. Mr. Kóbor is Hungarian mafia and bad news,” she says, her voice low. “You should go home.”
“I…” Before I can tell her I have little recollection of last night and I don’t actually have a home to go to, she’s already gone, right over to the far side of the dining room.
I pick up a few bread rolls, add some bacon which makes me feel queasy just looking at it, and turn to return to my seat.
Which is when I see him. Sat at my table, looking as fresh as fresh can be.
Without a bottle of wine inside me, he’s even more handsome than my vague recollection. He’s wearing another beautiful dark suit, clearly bespoke because it clings to his every sculpted muscle. He still has the shadow of a beard, even though it’s morning, and it makes his sharpened cheekbones stand out even more. His black hair is even thicker than I remember too, andI’m already blushing because I also recall I wanted to run my hands through it.
For a second I consider running. Then I remember I am a grown woman and instead I style it out, sauntering over to my table and taking my seat as if he’s been sat there all along.
His dark eyes rove over me, heating my skin, and then, all at once, they’re gone as he lifts a finger at the waitress.
“Fekete kávé,” he growls.
She nods and hurries away.
“I guess you already know?” He brings his attention back to me, his delicious velvet accented voice rolling over me like a soft fog.
“Know what?” I’m acutely aware of the dark rings around my eyes and my hair in the messiest of messy buns. And the fact my face is most probably bright red. But other than that, I’m not sure what I should know.
