I press shaking fingers to my mouth. God, how can I have been such an idiot? I just meant to take the edge off my nerves, not make myself comatose.
It’s only then that I look at the other bedside table. A glass of orange juice and a bottle of water sit there next to what looks like two Panadol.
With a groan, I roll over, fetch them, and knock them back with half of the juice in one go. Ahhh… that’s better. And now I need to pee.
I get up and walk a little unsteadily into the bathroom. It’s only afterward when I’m washing my hands that I look at the mirror and see my wedding dress hanging on the back of the door.
Marcus helped me take it off, I remember now. Oh God.
I dry my hands, my heart hammering. I remember him lifting it over my head and helping me on with the T-shirt. But he didn’t touch me. And when I asked him to kiss me, he brushed his lips against my forehead.
I look at my reflection. I didn’t take off my makeup last night, and my mascara is all smudged. I need my backpack.
Returning to the bedroom, I discover both my case and the backpack by the door. Well, that’s something.
To one side, a door stands closed. I open it cautiously and peer in. Wow, it’s a walk-in wardrobe. I go in and wander around. It’s full of men’s clothes. A variety of suits and shirts on hangers, a few dozen ties, folded T-shirts, jeans and shorts, a few racks of shoes… I look at the large watches displayed in a box, some of which I recognize, and the tray of cufflinks and tie pins. The whole room bears the faint scent of a masculine cologne.
Ohhh… this is Marcus’s bedroom.
I hesitate, wondering if I should go and find him. But I look a mess, my mouth tastes awful, and I need a shower. My mind made up, I go into the bathroom, nibble my thumbnail for a moment, then lock the door.
Now that I know I won’t be interrupted, I take a quick shower, dress in jeans and a loose white shirt, clean up my face and apply a little light makeup, and towel dry my hair.
I check my phone; it’s not quite eight a.m. Feeling a bit more human, I open the door, then walk down the corridor toward what I assume is the living room, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet.
Pausing in the doorway, I look around the apartment. It’s huge! The large windows of the living area look to the north and east, with a magnificent view of the CBD, Waitemata Harbour, the Harbour Bridge, and the North Shore in the distance. Ohhh… I think we’re in the penthouse.
What am I saying… of course Marcus would have the penthouse.
The vast living room leads to a dining area with a long glass table and eight chairs, and beyond it, a tiled area with an outdoor suite. There’s also a smaller, round table, and Marcus is sitting there, studying his phone and sipping from a takeaway coffee cup. A plate of croissants, butter, and preserves sits on the table, and my stomach rumbles.
He’s wearing jeans and a light-blue polo shirt, and I can see his hair is damp, so he’s obviously had a shower, too. He’s stretched out his long legs, and his feet, propped on the chair opposite, are bare like mine. He looks young, healthy, gorgeous, and sexy.
And I’m married to him. Oh dear God.
He looks up then and scans the room. I fight the urge to retreat into the shadows, and eventually he sees me. Surprise registers on his face, and he springs to his feet and comes inside.
I walk into the living room and meet him halfway.
“Good morning,” he says with a warm smile. “I didn’t expect to see you for another hour or two. How are you doing?”
“A little delicate, but I’m okay.” I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans, my shoulders hunching automatically.
He notices, but he doesn’t say anything. “Coffee?” he asks instead.
I give a heartfelt sigh. “Please.”
He goes into the kitchen and busies himself with turning on the machine and making one.
I hover by the counter. I feel awkward and embarrassed about what happened last night. It was his wedding day. He would have been expecting a romantic finale. And instead, I drank too much and passed out. He has every right to be mad, or at least to be pissed off and sulk, but he just glances at me and smiles.
When he finishes the coffee, he picks it up and says, “Come outside. It’s a lovely morning.”
We go out onto the balcony, and I sit opposite him. He gestures at the croissants, and I choose one, break off a piece, smear it with butter, and eat it.
“Good girl,” he says. “It’ll make you feel better.”
I give him a wry look at the endearment. He just lifts his eyebrows. I have a mouthful of coffee and stifle a groan as the hot liquid slides down, grounding me.
