Page 49 of Out of Control

Did we have sex last night?

It’s a question I’ve never had to ask myself and one that I’m embarrassed to ask myself now but . . . there’s no forgetting that kiss last night. The one we shared when I was sitting in the same position I am right now—legs dangling over the edge of the bed.

I’d like to think I wasn’t too drunk to remember the incredible hands and skill of Oliver Rossi, but if I was drunk enough to pass out and not sleep with him, then something is seriously wrong with me, right?

To be in his room, in his shirt, in his bed, and to not have acted on it? I mean . . . that’s a sexual travesty, is it not?

I smile at my ridiculous thoughts—my even footing—because being drunk was easy. Letting my guard down was fun. Being free to say whatever I wanted and having an excuse as to why I said it was great.

But now is the hard part.

Facing Rossi. Living up to whatever ridiculous thing I said. And then extricating myself from the situation if need be, despite feeling like we’re in a better place than we were.

With a reluctant sigh, I slip out of bed and head to the bathroom. The first thing I notice is the new bottle of water there, the two ibuprofen, and the new toothbrush in its package beside them atop a fresh towel.

I stare at them for a beat. I don’t know whether I should feel cared for that he has these out for me or weirded out that he does this so much that he has a routine.

Regardless, I use them all and head out to find him. My footsteps are soft as I walk down the tiled hallway toward what sounds like music playing softly elsewhere in the house.

The ambition to keep walking leaves me when I step into the edge of the kitchen and find Rossi. His back’s to me. He’s only wearing a pair of sweatpants and nothing else. He’s tanned and toned and I watch the chain reaction of muscles bunch and move as he moves about his kitchen.

The counter is covered in an array of pastries and breakfast sandwiches. The scent of coffee lingers in the air. And when I see beyond him into the great room the kitchen overlooks, there’s a blanket and bed pillow askew on the couch. It’s clear that’s where he slept.

Respect.

Words float back into my mind. Things Rossi said last night about me, about respect, that I know I need to hold tighter to but that I can’t one hundred percent remember.

And I stand in his kitchen, in his T-shirt, and I know that right or wrong, there is something here between us. And by him sleeping on the couch, he respected whatever that is.

What happens when you’re the mouse in the cat and mouse game and you suddenly want to be caught?

“I wasn’t sure what you like so I got a bunch of different things,” he says over his shoulder like me being in his place is the most normal thing in the world. Again, I question if this is his normal MO.

“How did you know I was standing here?” I take a step into the kitchen and stop when he turns to look at me. His eyes say so many things—none of which I’m able to decipher. They’re guarded in a way I haven’t seen them before, and I’m not sure if that unnerves me or makes me more at ease.

“When you’ve lived alone since you were sixteen, you know when someone’s in your space.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“That wasn’t inferring anything, Sofia. Simply a statement of fact.” He holds up a coffee mug. “Black? Cream or sugar?”

I stand in his kitchen and stare at him. “Cream, please.”

“One sec.” He moves with an unexpected efficiency as he doctors my coffee. “Grab some food. Unless that head of yours is hurting. If that’s the case, then—”

“No. It’s fine, it’s . . .” This is all just so normal. So domestic. “It’s fine.” I busy myself grabbing a croissant and some fruit. “Thank you for the toothbrush and ibuprofen.”

“It’s always weird waking up somewhere different. I figured you could use them,” he says like it’s no big deal when it is. I don’t think anyone has ever done that for me before.

“Thank you,” I repeat as I follow him to where he sits down at a breakfast nook to eat. And when I say nook, I mean a carved alcove off the side of his kitchen with floor-to-ceiling windows that have a breathtaking view of the sea. It’s a clear day and beyond the harbor, yachts move lazily in the distance while smaller boats zip around.

I take a seat opposite him, one foot on the chair so my knee is to my chest, as I bring the cup of coffee to my lips and take my first hit. “Hmm. That’s good. Thank you.”

“Of course.” He nods and looks at me over the rim of his own coffee. Our eyes hold before I focus on the croissant in front of me and begin tearing little pieces off it. I have no interest in eating at the moment, and it has nothing to do with the amount of alcohol I drank last night or an upset stomach because of it. It most likely has everything to do with the man sitting across from me.

“What do you mean you’ve lived alone since you were sixteen years old?” I ask.

“Technically I’ve been on my own since I was sixteen. It wasn’t until I was eighteen that I actually had a place of my own,” he says like it’s no big deal. “So I misspoke.”