“You’re really pretty, you know that.”
“Prettier than my ex.”
“Emotionally unhinged woman who just wants a kid and to be loved.”
Jesus Christ, Orla.
Those words looped in my skull like some deranged playlist of humiliation.
Oh god.
I’d shoved my tongue down his throat.
Fuuuuuck.
Oh my God! It had been hard, and messy and completely desperate. A complete car crash of lust and bourbon that should’ve come with traffic cones and hazard tape.
How mortifying was that? How clinically tragic did I look? But he’d kissed me back, right? I definitely hadn’t hallucinated that. I couldn’t have imagined the devastating tenderness of his mouth or the way it had sparked a vivid, pulsing heat in my lower stomach that I could still feel now.
Then the words in his text cut through it.
No, we didn’t fuck. I slept on the sofa.
I went still. We could have. Easily. And I’d have let him. A few months ago, I would have assumed he’d take exactly what was offered. That was the Tyler everyone warned me about, reckless, selfish, living on impulse.
But we didn’t.
Tyler fucking Reed, didn’t.
I sat up again, slowly, the dress from last night sliding off my shoulders, a silent reminder of how far gone I’d been. I reached for the water, swallowing the pills, the taste of metal and regret mixing on my tongue.
That one simple message, clear and surprisingly kind, drew the line I hadn’t been able to last night. He’d given me what I needed when I didn’t have the sense to think straight.
The ache that rose in my chest was deep and heavy.
Tyler had seen me at my worst—a drunk, mascara streaked mess—and he hadn’t run. Hadn’t judged. Hadn’t even taken advantage.
He’d just…stayed.
I looked toward the empty sofa, the blanket folded neatly and a small dent in the cushion where he must’ve slept. He was probably already at the courts, stretching out that hamstring I hadn’t treated.
And here I was. Hungover. Humiliated. In his bloody bed.
I should have been mortified—I was.
But beneath the pounding in my head and the acid reflux of shame, was a feeling I couldn’t shake.
Because Tyler Reed hadn’t just proved me wrong, he’d made me feel safe. That, somehow, was worse because it reinforced my want to trust him. And I wasn’t sure my heart could survive that.
Chapter 28
Orla
Orla’s Hotel Room
6 p.m.
I’d been pacingmy room like a caged animal for over an hour, wearing a track into the plush carpet and practising what I was going to say. Rehearsing apologies I wasn’t sure would fix this. I’d been a complete mess last night and worse, completely unprofessional. I’d taken the line we were meant to walk and basically set fire to it.
