SEVEN

 

The Morning After Whatever Happened Last Night…

 

Libby

 

 

I open one eye at time, each lid feeling like it’s stuck to a very dry eyeball. Oh, that was a horrible mistake. The sun streaming in the window burns my retinas and shoots through my brain like a spike through a wood plank. I moan and shut my eyes, pulling a pillow over my face to stop the pain.

“Turn it off,” I groan.

A deep voice comes from across the room. “Turn what off?”

“The sun. Shut it off.”

“Best I can do is close the curtains,” he says.

Wait. There’s a man in my room.

Who the frack is that, and what the hell is he doing in my room? Clutching the sheet to my neck, I shoot up, causing the pillow to fall on my lap.

Urgh, that was not a good idea. Moving so quickly causes the leftover booze in my queasy stomach to slosh around. I gag, then press my hand to my mouth, breathing slowly.

“You okay? Do you need a garbage can or anything?” he says, standing.

I shake my head, then blink a few times, waiting for my blurry eyes to focus on the source of the voice as he moves toward me.

Oh, no, no, no, no! That man is far too hot to be in my room.

Suddenly, a flash of being at the bar comes back to me. The drinks. The laughing. The beach. Petting a brawny man—him, I guess. The almost skinny dipping. The kiss. Did we kiss?

I gasp loudly. Did we have sex?

Oh, lord, please don’t tell me I was naked in front of this scruffy Adonis. Oh no! I could be naked at this very moment and he’s walking over here!

“Stay back!” I order, unable to stand the thought of him getting any closer when I’m in this condition—insanely hungover, possibly nude, and most certainly reeking of booze from every pore. I cautiously lift the sheet away from me, only to find I’m in a white T-shirt I’ve never seen before. Reaching down, I feel the side of my bottom and feel a wave of relief that I’m wearing my knickers.

He stops in place, looking more entertained than I’m comfortable with given the circumstances. “Come on, sweetie, after everything we did last night, I’m surprised you’re so shy this afternoon.”

“What do you mean, everything we did?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “And why did you say it’s the afternoon?”

“I’d call one forty-five afternoon, wouldn’t you?” He strides over and lays his incredibly muscular body across the bottom of the enormous bed, propping his head up on one hand.

“Oh my God...did we...?” I press the sheet to me again, gripping it so tightly, my knuckles turn white.

“You don't remember? It was amazing. The earth moved. And you—you were loud enough that we probably cleared out the entire resort.” He grins at me, then rolls off the bed and starts across the room, giving me a view of his muscly back and behind. Those are some seriously tight shorts.

No, Libby! Do not focus on his taut buttocks! You are not that kind of girl. “I’m very sorry, but I'm afraid I don't remember any of it.”

“None of it?” he asks.

When I shake my head, he says, “That's a real crime because it was the best night you’ve ever had. You told me as much right after round three.” Opening the mini-fridge, he grabs a bottle of water and takes off the lid. “At least I have it all on video.”

“What?!” My pulse speeds up, and I suddenly feel both hot and dizzy. What have I turned into? Some kind of hussy? Or worse—my mother?

“I didn't think it was a good idea, but you were pretty insistent.” He shrugs, then crosses the room and holds the bottle of water out to me.

I take it cautiously, then shrink back from him a bit. Why would a man this hot do whatever predictable, boring old Libby Dewitt said to do?

In an instant, it all makes perfect sense. My heart sinks and I let out a loud groan. “You’re a gigolo, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“Listen, I don’t know what I told you last night, but I can’t afford to pay you. I’m a little low on cash at the—”

“I’m not a gigolo.”

“Then why would you…?” I don’t really know how to put this. Why would someone as hot as you sleep with a very plain Jane like me?

“Why would I what?” He folds his arms across his broad chest.

My words come out rushed. “Sleep with someone like me.”

“Are you kidding right now?” he asks, raising one eyebrow.

“No, I’m afraid not.” I shake my head, then wince because my brain is pounding and because I really don’t want to hear his answer. I’ve had enough rejection for one weekend. Before he can say anything, I take a wild stab at it. “Now I get it, you’re one of those guys with extremely low standards. The type who’ll sleep with anything with a pulse.” I gasp again. “Oh my God. I probably have an STD by now, don’t I?”

“Ouch,” he says, rubbing at his chest. “You’re pretty mean when you’re sober.”

“Sorry. I don’t mean to insult you. I’m honestly just very confused.” I sigh and close my eyes for a second, unable to stand the look of hurt in his strikingly brilliant hazel eyes. “Maybe it would be best if you just left. I’m really not myself at the moment.”

“Okay, but it might make more sense if you left.”

“Why?” I ask, opening my eyes again.

“This is my room.”

I glance around, only to realize for the first time that this room, although decorated in exactly the same white linens and dark wood as mine, is much larger. This one has a sitting area and a desk off to the left, and now that I look out the patio doors, I see we’re in a beachfront suite instead of a standard garden-view room. My eyes fall on a chair in the corner, upon which are my clothes, folded and piled neatly. “We came back to your room.”

He nods. “Yup. It’s a villa, actually.”

“Well, then I should leave and you should stay.” I shimmy to the side of the bed, then stand, tugging the sheet so it comes with me.

“Okay.” He crosses to the large mahogany desk and sits down.

Picking up the pile of clothes, I hurry into the en suite, then shut and lock the door behind me. Leaning against it, I try to process everything I’ve just been told, but it’s all too bizarre. And how can I not remember any of it?

Because you were stinking drunk, you idiot.

I let the sheet fall to the floor, remove the foreign T-shirt, then dress as quickly as possible, stopping only to pee—a loud, long pee that seems to go on forever. Oh, God, I hope he can’t hear that. He probably never pees because that’s something only mortals do.

When I’m done, I stare at myself in the mirror while I scrub my hands. My red curls are sticking up wildly at all angles. Oh, that is some seriously sexified hair. I try to run my fingers through it, but it’s so tangled, I settle for smoothing it down as best I can. Spotting a bottle of mouthwash, I take a swig, then rinse my mouth while I try to figure out my next move.

My fuzzy-headed brain cannot seem to come up with a plan — only problems, the first one being the sex tape. My face turns bright pink and my stomach drops when I think about it. It’s not like the old days when you could make a sex tape, and it would literally mean one copy of a VHS tape that could easily be destroyed.

Oh, this is really a new low — pining for the days of old, when sex tapes were difficult to share with the world.

Gah! Focus!

The video is digital, therefore is most likely on a device that is connected to the Internet, meaning it’s already in ‘the cloud.’

THE CLOUD!? How could you have gone and made a sex tape with a stranger!?

I pace for a moment while I try to get myself under control and think. I know! I’ll just ask him to delete it off his device and the cloud. He doesn’t seem like a horrible person — slutty maybe, but not otherwise nasty. I’m sure he can be reasoned with.

I pick the sheet up off the floor, then straighten my back, take a deep breath, and open the door. When I walk out into the room, I see my god-like sex partner sitting at his desk, talking on the phone. I quickly cross the floor and place the sheet on the bed, then slide my feet into my waiting sandals.

“It should be a lot more. Like one and a half times that, at least.” He turns and gives me a little nod. “I have to run. Something important’s come up. I’ll ring you in a bit.” With that, he hangs up the phone and leans back in his chair.

Clearing my throat, I try to sound very no-nonsense. “Listen, about that video…”

“Relax, there’s no video.”

“What?”

“I was just winding you up a bit. Sorry.” He suppresses a guilty smile. “In fact, nothing happened,” he says, standing. “Well, I did have the pleasure of finding all your wet, sandy things in the dark and then carrying you all the way here from the beach.”

“Was I…” lowering my voice, I whisper, “naked?”

“You were in your undergarments. But don’t worry, I wrapped your skirt around you for the walk back. Nobody saw anything. Except me. I actually saw a lot.” He rubs the back of his neck and gives me a guilty grin. “That lacy fabric gets pretty see-through when it’s wet.”

My entire body flames with embarrassment at the thought. “Okay, well, I’m sorry for…your trouble last night. And I’m sorry for suggesting you were a gigolo earlier.”

“And for assuming I gave you an STD?”

“And that,” I say quietly. “I’m going to go now. You don’t happen to know where my room key is, do you?”

“That’s why we’re in my room. You must have lost it on the beach.”

“Right. Brilliant. I’ll just walk over to the front desk and get a replacement one, then.”

“Do you want me to call for a driver?”

“No, I don’t want to inconvenience you any further than I already have,” I say. “Besides, I need to stretch my legs.”

“You sure? It’s about a fifteen-minute walk to the main building from here, and it’s about a thousand degrees outside.”

“I’m positive. I love the heat…and exercise,” I say, hoping he can’t tell that both of those statements are absolute rubbish. I hate sweating full stop, but I really must get away from Mr. Perfect before I make an even bigger fool of myself. Besides, dying of heat stroke doesn’t seem like such a bad option at the moment.

“Suit yourself,” he says, picking up my copy of One Hundred Promises and handing it to me. I take it, trying not to notice the spark of energy when my fingertips brush against his.

He walks to the door with me and opens it while I try to think of some way to end this conversation that will leave me with a shred of dignity. But that ship has sailed, hasn’t it?

Yes, Libby, you spectacular idiot, it has.

I walk through the doorway, then turn and say, “Okay, well, thank you for taking care of me last night…and today, I guess. Sorry for your trouble...er…” My heart sinks as I realize I don’t even know his name.

“Everyone calls me Reef.” He gives me such an insanely gorgeous smile that it’s all I can do not to titter into my hand and flutter my eyelashes.

“Reef. Well, thank you for being a gentleman. I’ll see you around.” Because apparently my life has turned into a string of humiliations…