When I wake up, it’s just past seven and my mouth is dry. I must have only slept for about three hours. Ugh, why don’t hangovers ever just let you sleep? My eyes feel like they’re bruised, and my muscles ache. All I want to do is stay in bed, so I burrow further under the covers and snuggle into my pillow. Unfortunately, I’m too thirsty to go back asleep, so I decide to go downstairs and grab some water.

It’s just as I’m crawling out of bed that I remember what I did last night. I tried to kiss Jay, and he gave me the platonic forehead kiss before awkwardly leaving the room. I’ve seen enough rom coms in my time to know what the platonic forehead kiss means.

Feeling a sudden urge to work off the embarrassment, I pull my hair up into a knot on top of my head, put on my exercise gear, and decide to go for a cycle. Thankfully, Jay’s still sleeping, so I manage to grab some water and get my bike out of the shed without bumping into him.

It’s a beautiful July morning when I step outside, the birds singing and the sun shining. I can tell we’re in for a hot day, and already I feel slightly better about myself. Everybody does embarrassing stuff when they’re drunk. It doesn’t mean anything.

I pedal fast, gliding down the road. The place where I live can be kind of beautiful sometimes; there’s a long stretch of road that runs along the coast from right outside my house for miles all the way to Howth, a small seaside town about a twenty-minute car ride outside the city. I cycle all the way there and back again, my entire body dripping with sweat by the time I get home.

As I walk into the house, I hear Jay cooking up a storm in the kitchen. In an effort to avoid him, I sneak back out and go around the side of the house to leave my bike in the shed. He must see me through the window, because he opens the sliding doors and steps out.

“Matilda, I’m making all the best hangover foods for you. I hope you’re hungry.”

I take a deep breath, shutting the door of the shed and turning around. He comes toward me, taking in my cycling gear and my sweaty, hung-over self. I wonder what I look like to him right now.

“Morning,” he says simply.

“Morning.” I move to walk by him, but his arm flies out, blocking me.

“Hey, what’s wrong? You seem off.”

I wipe my forehead and drink some more water from the bottle I’m holding. “I’m tired. I just cycled about twelve miles.”

Jay whistles. “Did you work it off?”

“Huh?”

“Whatever you were trying to work off,” he elaborates, reaching out and running a finger down my neck. “Sweat suits you,” he murmurs, almost absently.

“I’m not sure what you mean by that, but it was a good workout. Did you say something about breakfast? I’m starving,” I prattle on, and walk around him, going inside.

He sets a plate down in front of me, and it looks delicious. My stomach rumbles at the sight. “You’re being awkward, and you need to stop it,” he tells me firmly.

“I’m not being awkward.”

“Oh, yes, you are, and I’m not having it. So you tried to kiss me last night. You were drunk, Watson. It’s fine. Everybody gets a little kissy when they’ve had a few.” He winks.

“Yeah, well, I apologise for getting kissy,” I say, scowling, and he laughs, pulling a chair out and sitting down. My phone goes off then, vibrating with a message. I pull it out of my pocket to find it’s actually an email alert. I check it out and see that it’s from Owen, the chef. He responded to my message! My heart lifts. He wasn’t avoiding me like I thought.

A smile shapes my lips as I read what he’s written. He wants to meet up today for lunch. Oh, wow. That’s so soon. Then again, what with the current Jay situation, it’s probably the ideal distraction.

“What are you grinning like a fool for?” Jay asks as he chews.

I send Owen a quick response telling him I’ll be there and then slide the phone back in my pocket. All the while I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. I can’t believe I’ve agreed to meet up with a stranger. “Uh, I just agreed to go on a date,” I reply shakily. “Today.”

Jay doesn’t say anything for a while, just silently watches me while he eats. “Is this an online thing?”

“Yeah.”

“You should let me check out his profile, make sure he’s not some creep.”

“Eh, I think I can determine if he’s a creep or not on my own. And he’s not. He’s a chef.”

“Well, la di fucking da. I still want to check him out, Matilda. He’s a stranger. It’s not safe. On second thought, why don’t I be your escort?”

I laugh out loud at that. “Okay, I’ll just ask my dad along, too, make it a big family day out,” I reply with sarcasm. “You’re not escorting me, but if you like we can exchange numbers, and I’ll call if anything goes wrong. We’re going to be in a public place, though, so even if he is weird, I can easily slip away.” I don’t bother to point out that Jay was a stranger to me not too long ago. In fact, I still don’t know that much about him.

“Fine, give me your phone,” he says, holding his hand out for it. I hand it to him, and he pulls his own out. As he programmes his number in, I carry on eating my breakfast. He’s taking a little long, though, and when he gets this smug look on his face I know he’s snooping.

“Give me my phone back now, Jay,” I say, reaching across the table. I swipe for the phone, but he holds it out of my reach.

“This guy is a complete douche, Watson. He talks to you like he’s trying to arrange a business transaction.”

I jump out of my seat now, determined to get my phone back. I grab it, but he pulls on it, swinging his arm around, and I go flying, landing smack bang on his lap. “Give it back, Jay. You’re being invasive,” I plead, getting upset. I really don’t like him reading my messages. It was funny at first, but now it feels like he’s laughing at me.

Frowning, he hands me the phone, and I swiftly jump out of his lap.

“I actually find him very gentlemanly compared to most of the perverts who’ve written to me,” I sniff. The hangover has me extra emotional. “And just because some of us find it more difficult than others to meet someone, it doesn’t mean you have to go making fun.”

Jay leans across the table, taking my hand in his. “Hey, I was only joking around.” His thumb rubs over the inside of my wrist, and I pull away. The contact makes me feel too much.

“Whatever. You were being mean, and you know it.”

“That wasn’t my intention, but I’m sorry all the same. God, you’re too fucking cute, aren’t you?” His voice is low, making something stir deep in my belly.

“Stop trying to console me with fake compliments.”

“You’re cute, Matilda. Real fucking cute. Now, can we backtrack a second? Who says I don’t find it just as difficult to meet people as you do?”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, come on. I doubt you’ve ever gone through a dry spell in your life.”

“Just because women approach me a lot doesn’t mean I always go for them. We all find it hard to meet someone who fits us. If you hadn’t guessed from my occupation, I’m not exactly normal.”

I stare at him, surprised by how he just opened up. He’s getting serious now, and it’s making me feel weird. I want to go and give him a hug and make friends, but I don’t have the courage. Instead, I glance at my watch and make like I need to go get ready.

“Okay, well, I’m sorry for insinuating that you have it easy, Jay. Thanks for breakfast. I’m going to take a shower.”

I leave the room, and I can feel his eyes on me the entire time.

Selecting an outfit for my date is harder than I anticipated. I try to call Michelle for advice, but her phone goes straight to voicemail. I suppose she’s probably trying to sleep last night off. So I’m on my own. It’s times like this that I could do with a female parent.

I settle on a pleated pastel blue skirt that reaches past my knees and a white short-sleeved blouse that buttons up to the neck. The look is very fifties preppy, and I finish it off with a pair of white and navy boat shoes. I blow-dry my hair, curling the ends and putting it up in a high ponytail. I’m feeling confident that I look good. I just hope that Owen is impressed.

When I come downstairs, Jay and Dad are in the living room, chatting. I step inside, and their conversation quietens.

“Where are you off to, chicken?” Dad asks, smiling, his legs crossed as he lounges back in his armchair.

Scratching at my arm nervously, I answer, “I have a date.”

“A date? Well, isn’t that just wonderful. You look very pretty.”

I give him a small grin. “Thanks, Dad.”

Jay’s been staring at me silently the whole time. I hitch my bag up on my shoulder and turn to leave.

“I’ll walk you out,” he says then, hopping up from his seat and following me out. I walk to the door and step outside before turning to face him. He places his hands on my shoulders and looks down at me, studying my face.

“Don’t be nervous. The douche chef is lucky you’re giving him the time of day. Tell yourself that. Repeat it in your head over and over. Be the confident Matilda who’s hiding in there somewhere, the one who never stopped smiling,” he tells me, his voice a little strained.

I take a deep breath, and his words actually do make me feel more confident, like I can handle this. “I’ll try. Thanks, Jay.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, then runs his hands over the fabric of my top and teases, “Look at this fucking outfit, so angelic, puts me in a mood to do some corrupting.”

I look at him, my mouth hanging open. He leans down and places the softest, most feather-light kiss to my cheek. I put my hand to it as I walk away, heading for the bus stop. God, how I wish it was him I was going to lunch with instead of Owen. Not that there’s anything wrong with Owen. I’m sure he’s not a douche, as Jay puts it. It just seems like all men pale in comparison to the illusionist under my roof.

When I get to the restaurant, a stylish bistro, I hesitate outside for about five minutes. My heart is pounding way too fast, and my hands are shaking. I breathe in and out, needing another pep talk from Jay. He’s not here, though, and I have to go inside sooner or later. I’m definitely not going to allow myself to chicken out and leave.

When I finally walk in, I spot Owen sitting at a table for two outside on the terrace. Every step feels like a mile as I walk toward him and he lifts his eyes to mine. He stands when I reach the table, coming and giving me a kiss on the cheek. I’m disappointed that it doesn’t give me butterflies like Jay’s kiss did.

“You’re Matilda,” he says.

“Yeah, I am,” I reply stupidly.

He smiles. “I’m Owen.”

He pulls out my chair for me, very politely, and I sit. There’s a menu on the table, so I pick it up just to have something to do with my hands. A waiter goes by carrying a tray of drinks, and I wonder why I didn’t think to have one or two myself before coming here. Being tipsy would make my nervousness less obvious. Although being obviously drunk probably wouldn’t look so good, either.

“So, you’re the chef. What would you suggest I order?” I ask, trying to sound mature and confident. My voice sounds weird, even to my own ears.

Owen smiles. “Well, I don’t work here, but the chicken main sounds good.”

“I like chicken. Although, not the fake processed kind. It has the consistency of rubber.”

Did I just fucking say that? Kill me now.

It’s not a complete disaster, though, because Owen makes noises of agreement. “Yeah, that stuff is awful. I refuse to believe it’s actual chicken.”

That makes me laugh. “Oh, my God, what could it be? Do you think they’re feeding us spices and glue?”

Owen leans in, whispering, “It could be anything. But let’s not talk about it here. The walls have ears.”

I laugh even louder this time. This is actually going well. Colour me surprised. We talk for a while about our jobs, and I tell him all about my dressmaking. He seems alert and interested, which is a good sign. I’ve often gotten stuck talking to men in bars with Michelle, and their eyes would completely glaze over when I spoke about myself. And most of those glazed eyes were focused on my chest rather than my face.

Just after our food arrives, my phone beeps loudly with a message. I decide to ignore it, but Owen insists I check, since it could be something important. It’s not. It’s from Jay.

Sherlock Holmes at your Service: Watson, where do you keep your lawnmower?

Yeah, that’s what he programmed his name in as. I immediately correct it to a simple “Jay.”

Matilda: It’s in the shed. I’m not even going to ask what you want it for. P.S. I’m not keeping your name like that, you big geek.

Jay: In the shed now. Can’t find it. I want to mow the lawn, what else? Keep the name or face the consequences.

Matilda: Why are you bothering me with this? Can’t you ask Dad? I laugh in the face of your consequences.

Jay: He’s gone out. Laugh at my consequences, will you? I should spank you for your insolence.

I don’t know what to say to that, and I’m actually blushing. My finger hovers over the screen, trying to think of a clever response, when another message comes in.

Jay: I forgot to ask how your date’s going…?

Matilda: It would be going better if you weren’t so rudely interrupting it!

Jay: So it’s going good. Is he being a gentlemen? He better be. I don’t wanna have to go over there and whip out the fists of fury.

Smirking, I shove my phone back in my bag now, deciding I’ve left Owen waiting long enough. We continue with our conversation and our food, and my phone beeps several more times with messages. In the end, I turn it off. Whatever Jay wants, it can wait. Owen seems a little perplexed that I’m ignoring my phone. Great, now he probably thinks I’m a bitch who ignores her friends’ messages.

Our date ends, and Owen walks me to the bus stop. It turns out he walked to the restaurant since he lives close by. He quietly suggests we do this again sometime, and I smile at him as I agree. Then we exchange numbers. When my bus comes, he moves in for what could either be a kiss or a hug. My nerves get the better of me, and I hop quickly onto the bus, furiously waving goodbye like a dope.

God, that was awful. I think I might have just ruined the semi-success of the date with that stellar move. I’ll just have to wait and see if he calls.

As I ride the bus, I finally decide to check Jay’s messages.

Jay: Oh, come on, Watson. Don’t leave me hanging.

Jay: Still waiting…

Jay: He better not try to touch your boobies.

Jay: Fine. I know when I’m not wanted.

Jay: Only joking. Everybody wants me ;-)

When I get home, I see that the lawn hasn’t been mowed, so I know that Jay was either lying or he couldn’t find the lawnmower. The possibility that he couldn’t find it is ridiculously low, since our shed is tiny and the lawnmower is a huge orange contraption. This makes me annoyed, so I march my way up to his room, preparing to give him an earful. I don’t bother to knock; instead, I bulldoze my way in.

I should have knocked.

What I find is a topless Jay, sprawled out on the top of his bed, asleep. I stand there staring at him for longer than would be deemed appropriate. He has one muscular arm thrown up above his head, while the other rests along his torso, his hand on the cut “V” of his hip bone. I shiver just looking at him, a work of art in tattoos and muscles.

Pure pornography.

I close the door and walk to the edge of the bed, breathing slowly, my eyes drinking him in. His phone is beside him on the pillow, which makes me think he must have been messaging me while he was like this. Barely clothed and sleepy.

He was definitely lying about the lawnmower, but why? Did he want to interrupt my date, or was he simply bored and felt like making a nuisance of himself?

My eyes go to the cubist-looking tattoo on one side of his chest. It’s definitely my favourite of all his ink, and he has a lot of it. It’s so vibrant on his smooth skin, and I have the sudden urge to touch it. His chest is rising and falling slowly. I reach out, and just when my fingertips meet his skin, his hand moves, swiftly grabbing my wrist. I startle, my attention going to his face. His eyes are still closed, his expression relaxed, but then his lips curve in a smile.

“What are you doing, Matilda?” he asks in a husky, sleepy voice.

Words fail me. He doesn’t let go of my wrist. Now he opens his eyes.

“I asked you a question, darlin’.”

There it is again. That “dahlin” will be the death of me one of these days. I try to pull my wrist away, but he holds on tight. In fact, he pulls on it, making me lean forward and dragging me closer to that delectable body of his. I suck in a breath.

“I came to have a word with you. You almost ruined my date with your stupid messages,” I say, but there’s no anger in my tone. None at all.

“Funny, it didn’t look like you came to have a word. It looked more like you came to feel me up in my sleep.”

I scowl at him. “I wasn’t feeling you up. I was only going to try to nudge you awake.”

He smirks. “Oh, that’s what it was, was it? Come here, then, and we’ll have a word.”

Quick as a flash he yanks on my wrist, pulling me down onto the bed with him. He moves me so I’m facing away from him, and then he wraps his arm around my middle so we’re spooning. Spooning! When I marched up those stairs, I never thought this was what would happen.

My heart speeds up, and so does my breathing. I can hear it all loud in my ears.

“So, go on. Put me in my place,” says Jay, his breath whispering over my neck.

“This isn’t how people have words, Jay,” I manage quietly.

“It’s not? But this is my favourite way to have words.”

“You messaged me on purpose. I know you did. You wanted to be a nuisance because you were bored.”

“Something you should know about me, I’m never bored,” he murmurs. “The chance for boredom would be a fine thing, but this fucking brain of mine never stops.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“I told you, I was looking for the lawnmower.”

“The grass hasn’t been mowed.”

“I got tired, decided to go take a nap. You must be tired, too. You didn’t get much sleep last night. Let’s nap together.”

“I’m not napping with you. I’m still dressed. I haven’t even had the chance to take my shoes off.”

I don’t know why that detail seems so pertinent, but it’s what I focus on. Perhaps so I don’t have to focus on his hard chest pushing into my back.

He lets out a breath. “Go ahead and take off some articles, then, darlin’. I’m not going to complain.”

“Why would I nap with you?” I ask, speaking softly now. “I have a perfectly good bed right next door.”

“Because sleeping in a pile is the best way to sleep, and you can’t do that alone. Haven’t you ever read Where the Wild Things Are?”

“This isn’t a pile. This is a spoon. And just so you know, it takes more than two people to make a pile.”

“Wanna bet?” he asks, and then rolls us swiftly so I end up right on top of him. My body is lying flat along his, and I’m in danger of combusting. I can feel every sculpted inch of him, every hard line.

“Now we’re a pile. Go to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep like this.”

“Stop betting me — you’ll only lose.”

He moves his legs between mine and uses his feet to push off my shoes. “And now your shoes are off. You should definitely be able to sleep now.”

There are a long few moments of silence.

“Jay,” I whisper.

“What, honey?” he whispers back, his hand stroking up and down my spine. I nestle my head into the crook of his neck and close my eyes. There’s no point in protesting anymore. I need to admit that this is probably one of the best things that has ever happened to me. Plus, I am pretty exhausted.

“I think I like sleeping in a pile.”

His answering chuckle vibrates through his chest, lulling me off to sleep.