Page 5 of One Night Only
I zero in on his face smushed against the pillow wrapped in his arms. A light smattering of stubble shadows a strong jaw, pink lips pouted in sleep, an untamed mop of golden-brown hair sticking up in every which way.Sexhair.
Suddenly it all comes back to me. Oh, God.
The guy. Dallas.
My traitorous subconscious cheers.Well done, you. And, yes, granted, he’s attractive, I’m not denying that. But no,notwell done me. This is so far fromwell done me, I don’t even know where to start. I went to a bar to meet someone, and I ended up leaving the bar with someone else. Astranger. A hot stranger, but a stranger no less.Emily Cole, you thirty-five-year-old hussy.
For at least three minutes I just sit, staring at the body next to me. Am I dreaming? Is this some kind of hallucination from too many mid-week wines?
A million questions race through my mind as I try to piece together last night, but all I manage to conjure up are a few pixelated flashbacks. I remember being in the bar. Then in a cab. Oh, God! I’m tormented by a vision of me grinding myself against his strong, meaty thigh, his tongue shoved half-way down my throat.
Looking out at the river glittering beneath the light of the morning sun, guilt, shame, fear, and everything in between rack through me. I had sex last night. With a random. My first ever one-night stand, at thirty-five. I want to die.
I have no idea where I am. Brooklyn, obviously. All I know is that I have to get the hell out of here with what’s left of my dignity before he wakes up, because I am in no state to be dealing with this awkward morning-after bullshit.
Reaching for my purse on the nightstand, I pull out my phone. But of course, it’s dead. Because apparently my life issuddenly nothing more than a never-ending series of bullshit misfortune.
Holding my breath, I move one limb at a time from the bed like some Cirque Du Soleil contortionist, careful not to make too much sudden mattress movement. Then I skulk across the room wearing a hockey jersey three sizes too big and my control-top thong.
Quicker than I’ve ever changed clothes in my life, I discard the jersey and snag my dress, shimmying it up over my hips. Searching for my heels, I find one strewn in the corner, the other poking out from underneath the chaise.
I eye the bedroom door skeptically. Does he live alone? Are there others? The last thing I need right now is to come face-to-face with some unsuspecting roommate.
With my purse and shoes secured firmly in my grip, I take one last look around to check I haven’t left anything behind. If I have, too bad. It’s his now. A token to remember me by. Or not. Preferably not. Last night needn’t be remembered. Or spoken of ever again.
With one final glance at the man sleeping peacefully, looking far more attractive than one should look while passed out after a night of drunken debauchery, I slip quietly out of the bedroom, my heart racing the whole time.
Thankfully, the apartment is silent and roommate free. And holy shit. This place is something else. An open plan converted loft, all polished concrete, exposed pipes and wooden beams, overlooking a view of the Brooklyn Bridge, to the left, and the Manhattan Bridge right there through huge arched windows.
Grabbing my coat from the back of a brown leather sectional, I pad quietly to the door, exiting to a generic hallway. Releasing the breath I’d been holding, I practically run for the elevator, frantically pressing the call button like I’m being chased by Michael Myers himself.
By the time I make it outside, I’m immediately hit by an icy chill I’m definitely not dressed for. I quickly shrug on my coat asI consider my options. Surely there’s a train station nearby or a cab I can flag down. Hell, I willwalk of shamemy ass across the Brooklyn Bridge wearing yesterday’s panties and a terrible case of morning-after regrets if have to. I don’t care. I just need to get the hell out of here. Far away from the memory of last night, so I can get straight down to pretending like itneverhappened.
CHAPTER 2
DALLAS
FOUR WEEKS LATER…
Is it wrong that I can still smell the hint of pussy on my fingers the morning after? Yes, I’ve showered; I’m not completely disgusting. But as I sit across from my agent, while he explains my potential earnings if I sign with a certain beer brand, I’m hit by that all too familiar scent as I rest my chin on my fist. I can’t remember her name—I never can—but Icanremember just how she looked as she came all over my fingers in the back of the cab we took from the bar to her Bushwick apartment.
“Earth to dickhead?”
I’m snapped back to reality to find Andy staring at me with an incredulous look in his eyes. “You listening, or what?”
I sit up a little straighter. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“This deal can make you a lot of money, Dallas.” Andy sighs. “But lately there’s been some negative backlash around professional athletes promoting alcohol.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s that wholethink of the childrenbullshit.” Says the guy with six-year-old twins.
Andy sits back, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m leaving the decision up to you, but again…” He taps his pen against the graph at my forecasted earnings.
“That’s a lot of money,” I muse, staring at the dollar amount. With a smirk, I add, “And I do love beer.”
“It’s as if it was meant to be.” Andy grins because he knows he’s got me.
“Here we are, gentlemen.”
We’re interrupted by a waitress returning with our meals and Andy snatches the graph off the table, tucking it into his folio like it’s the blueprint for the New York Stock Exchange and we’re planning a heist.
