I still shudder at what could have happened if Wren hadn’t appeared.
The two detectives asked me a number of questions like what I did for work, how did I get to the hotel, how did I meet Corbin and finally the question I was hoping they wouldn’t ask.
“When was the last time you saw Mr Claythorne?”
This is going to sound so, so bad. “He came to my room last night, after the dinner party. Nothing happened! He wanted to talk and I didn’t want to. He started to get a little…aggressive.” I hate how I posed the word as an uncertainty, because I know full well that he’d meant to scare and intimidate me. I’d felt so suffocated as he invaded my space.
“Why was he being aggressive?” DC Goldie asks this time and scribbles in his own notepad.
“I asked him to leave and he refused. Thankfully Wren overheard and made him leave.”
“Mr Hastings, correct?” DS Starling cross-questions, looking down at a paper with all our names on it.
I nod.
“He’s your…?”
I pin him with a look and try to hide my annoyance. “He’s my nothing.”
Sitting back, an unnerving smile makes his moustache twitch again. “Well that's not true.” He flips the paper over where notes have been written, tapping his leg with the pen and my nerves grow in my stomach. “It says here that he is your partner in the murder mystery game being hosted this weekend, by Mr Claythorne. Correct?” I nod too quickly, and as his lip curls up in the corner, I’d give anything for mind reading powers.
After more questions on our break up, I’m finally allowed to go. I practically run from the library, exhaustion hitting me harder this time and all I want to do is fall into my bed so I can sleep the rest of the day away.
A firm lump presses against my foot at the bottom of my bed and wakes me up. I’m short, but whilst stretching out like a cat, I shouldn’t be able to reach the bed frame. Sitting up, I squint into the stale darkness, trying to blink a slither of light into existence. I must have gotten comfy and crawled under the covers at some point, but as I feel the fabric brush against my bare thighs, I realise I’m no longer in my dress. The solid form at the end of my bed moves and instinctively I kick hard.
“Sweetheart,” Wren grunts, “I’d love to play footsie, but maybe don’t aim for my ribs next time.”
Shrieking, I fumble for the bedside lamp, unsure if it’s even there because this is a hotel room and not my own bedroom. It takes a couple of tries but I hit the little latch, whirling to glare at the curled up rockstar looking sleepy and smirking. “Good evening, gorgeous.”
“What are you doing?” I hiss whilst a blush creeps up my neck.
Lifting himself up onto one elbow, he cocks his head to the side and looks around. “Having a sleepover—duh.”
“You’re not funny!” I grab a cushion and aim it at his head, to which he doesn’t even flinch. “This is taking your stalkerish tendencies a little too far.”
He scoffs. “Do I have to remind you, it wasyouthat hid under a desk and watched me yesterday. I still have the little teeth marks to prove it.” he waggles his finger tips devilishly.
Glaring, I take a look down to confirm I’m definitely not in my dress; I’m in a t-shirt. A Larks t-shirt. Slowly, I look back up andwonder how many pillows I could throw at once to knock that smirk from his face. “Did you get me changed?”
All at once I’m incredibly aware I’m alone, in bed with a man who admittedly is very hot and very out of my league. I’m sure I have bed head and god knows how my makeup is sitting after a day of crying my eyes dry, and throwing up. Luckily I did manage to brush my teeth before falling on the bed.
“I did, but hear me out—I promise I didn’t look and it was pretty dark in here anyway when I came to check on you. You were all twisted in your dress and it’s boiling in this heat, so I just thought you’d appreciate it when you woke up.” He says with sincerity. It’s like he can’t help himself though, because he winks. “Plus your snoring was cute.”
“I do not snore!” I finally give in and launch another pillow, causing a laugh to escape him.
His eyes twinkle in the dim light. “Whatever you want to believe.”
“Why your band's t-shirt?”
“Not a fan?” He pretends to pout, but I can sense a little vulnerability; like this answer matters to him. It doesn’t mean I can’t make him sweat a little.
“You’re alright.”
“Just alright? Please, I bet you’ve got a poster of me up on your bedroom wall.”
“Nah, wouldn’t want to scare any potential suitors off displaying bad taste.”
He gasps, putting his hand over his heart. “You wound me, Wife. How dare you elude going to bed with other men.”
