“What are you doing?” I ask, knowing exactly what he is doing.
“I should go.” He stuffs the wound cable into his leather bag. “You’re right: you charmed the pants off Christoph, you deserve to enjoy the room on your own.”
The words come out of my mouth before my braincomes to its senses. “It’s nearly midnight and chucking it down outside. Just sleep in the living room.” I scratch the back of my head, eyebrows knitted. The rain pounds against the window as hard as my heartbeat.
He stops with one arm in his bag and looks up at me, eyes bright. “You want me to stay?” He raises an eyebrow, just as shocked as I am at the words coming from my lips.
“No!” I blurt defensively, arms crossing tightly across my chest. “I just don’t want you to go.”
He doesn’t respond, but a slow smile spreads across his face.
I throw my arms in the air. “The room was a joint gift.Mi casa es su casa!” I say, mouth dry.
“I really don’t have to—”
“You can sleep there,” I interrupt, pointing to the sofa. He stifles a smile as I throw a pillow of confirmation at him. “But I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
He turns away and my eyes clamp shut.Why. Why. Why. Why did my stupid brain do that? I know I should send him home but I just... don’t want to. I could already feel the empty hole his absence would carve out. A yawning chasm of disappointment. And all I would fill it with would be overthinking and what-ifs.
“OK, I’ll stay. Goodnight, Grace.” He holds the pillow to his chest, eyes glinting.
I call back, “Sleep tight!”
25
I do not sleep tight. I sleep scattered, my limbs thrown across the sheets, searching every inch of the king-size bed, trying to find fresh pockets of cold like an octopus on acid. I gave up a while ago. The thunderstorm outside isn’t helping the feeling that I’m stuck inside a bubble that’s about to burst. The air seeping in from the city crackles with energy. I’m not a good sleeper at the best of times; after I moved to the city it took me months to get used to the sounds of ambulances, drunk people and horny foxes all having street-side screaming contests every night. But the intermittent thunder—which seems so much louder up this high—and Bancroft’s naturally overwhelming presence in the room mean there is absolutely no chance of me having a restful night.
“We were never just friends.”
I debate whether to cancel the date with Jack. It’s 2 a.m., the date is in six hours. I’ll be so tired. I’ll have to wear yesterday’s work clothes. Susie will be pissed off if I get in a minute past 9 a.m., so it’s barely worth going.
The only thing stopping me from canceling is the fact I’ve already, stupidly, told Bancroft about it. If Icancel, he’ll assume it’s because of him. Because of what he said.
His voice replays in my head like some lust-edged ice-cream truck circling the block over and over and over.
“Is it a real date?”
What does that even mean? And why did he try and bolt the minute I confirmed it was?
Shifting slowly so the bed barely makes a sound I look over to where Bancroft is sleeping soundly. His existence in the room is so... loud. He always commands attention but now it’s as if some otherworldly being is bellowing “Helloooooo, do you see that stunning man sleeping meters away from you?” directly into my skull. The warm glow radiating from the expansive living-room windows gently caresses him as he sleeps. I’m pretty sure he’s just in his boxers under that blanket. His exposed chest rises slowly up and falls gently. It’s not fair. Why couldn’t the person I am set to destroy be some annoying, unattractive oaf without an ounce of charm? Not the smoky-woody-with-hints of-lemongrassy-smelling Adonis who’s so tall his bare legs are dangling out of the blanket over the edge of the sofa. Urgh.
I bite my lip as my hand rubs in long, drawn-out circles over my belly, tracing the edges of my underwear. I’m just frustrated; it’s nothing to do with him. But why can I not stop staring at his jaw, thinking what it would be like to trace my fingers over it; his chest, what it would feel like pressed against mine; his mouth, and what it wouldwhisper to me in the dark? Something curls in my stomach as I remember his lips feathering against mine in the winter lamplight, his eyes hardening and throat bobbing as he tried to comfort me in his office, the ghost of his thumb lightly tracing my ribs during the yoga class. My hand trails up and down over the lace of my underwear in rhythm with his moving chest.
He shifts onto his back and throws a muscled arm over his face. My fingers stop dead.
My eyes scrunch closed as I mirror his movement, lying flat on the bed.
What are you doing? Snap out of it! This is Bancroft. You hate him. You are currently plotting his professional demise!
Sighing, I reach through the darkness to the side table for a glass of water, only to bump my hand against an almost empty champagne glass. The round base teeters back and forth debating whether to fall and break. Punishing me for my indiscretion, it decides to topple. My hand lurches out and I screech through gritted teeth as my finger touches the edge of the glass. The flute hits the edge of the side table and splits cleanly in half against the wooden surface. I thank the universe it didn’t completely explode into tiny shards of expensive crystal all over the rug, or cover my notebook in flat champagne. Glancing back to Bancroft, I check if the sound woke him; thankfully, he’s still asleep, arm taut over his face. I quietly untangle myself from the sheets, rubbing my eyes.
With a piece of champagne-coated crystal in eachhand, I creep on tiptoes like a Scooby Doo villain through the living room, praying Bancroft doesn’t wake to see me in a T-shirt and underwear inching past him with a shard of glass weapon in hand. I let out a held breath as I round into the kitchen, gently placing the two pieces of glass into the copper sink. My head feels heavy as I look out on the sparkling city skyline. Purple, blue and red lights from passing boats bounce off the river, piercing through the rows of twinkling high-rise buildings. This time of night has always filled me with an eddying comfort. It’s like being stuck between waking and dreaming, in a world where anything could happen, but none of it seems real.
My body jolts as my peripheral vision catches sight of a figure in the kitchen entryway.
“Thirsty?” the shadowed specter asks with a smirk.
My entire body turns into a canvas of goose bumps. “Parched,” I confirm, swallowing.