Forget (24 page)

Deciding that I’m too hungover to have a “Come to Jesus” talk with my subconscious, I continue to assess the damage. My limbs are sore from movement, which I’m chalking up to all the dancing, but I’m not feeling soreness anywhere else. I would think that if sex with Dylan did occur, I’d be feeling the “I definitely got banged last night” discomfort between my legs. A man can’t look that good, kiss that good or give a mind-blowing orgasm with just his fingers, without being able to follow it up with some seriously hot sex.

I shuffle a little on my feet, testing my theory . . .
Nope, nothing.
Leaning towards the mirror, I inspect my chest and neck for hickeys . . .
No tramp marks to be found.
Running my finger along my lips, I scrutinize their reflection. They’re not puffy or swollen. “Congratulations, Brooke, you didn’t blow him,” I say to myself in the mirror, which is completely ironic. Wrapping my lips around Dylan’s cock should be celebrated. Parades and fireworks and unicorns jumping over rainbows come to mind.

I’m starting to wonder how and why I got here. Most men bring a girl back to their place, after a late night, for things other than chatting and exchanging Pinterest recipes.
Unless
I passed the point of no return last night and became
that
drunk girl. You know, the random girl you spot when you’re out with your friends, she’s mumbling to herself in the bathroom while her feet are pushed out from under the stall. The one that has you silently thanking your lucky stars she’s not your responsibility for the night.

Yeah,
that
girl.

We’ve all been there, and every time we promise ourselves we’ll never return to that state. No one wants to be that girl. Oh, for the love of all that’s holy, I’m praying I wasn’t in that shape last night. If that’s the case, I’m not allowed anywhere near Dylan ever again because making an ass out of myself during our first meet-and-greet is one thing, but to do it every other time we come in contact with each other must be a bad fucking omen.

I do the sniff check, inhaling the stench of days old booze. A quick clean-up isn’t going to put a dent in the odors wafting from my body. This is a job only a hot shower can fix. Since he told me to make myself at home, and the alcohol is still buzzing in my blood stream, I throw caution to the wind. I remove the very little clothing that’s still on my body—panties and shirt. I’m guessing my bra, jean shorts, and Chucks are somewhere scattered across his bedroom, and I refuse to question the events that led up to losing most of my clothes.

The water eases my aching skin, relaxing my muscles and calming the anxious emotions pricking at my nerves. I savor the hot water and ignore my racing mind. His body wash and shampoo are my only options. I forgo washing my hair and focus on scrubbing last night’s alcohol off of my skin. I’m secretly enjoying the idea that I’m rubbing his scent on me. It’s entirely weird yet satisfying, borderline creepy yet relaxing. I make three circuits with his soap, blaming the extra washes on the stench of alcohol that was permeating from my pores.

I’m not normally the type of person who takes the saying “making yourself at home” so literally, but I don’t want to leave the comfort of his shower. My ass has planted itself on the bench beneath the spray of hot water and seems unwilling to move. I look straight up, staring at the ceiling. The steam rises above the curtain and billows throughout the bathroom in soft waves. It’s hypnotizing, putting me in a trance. Arms are loose and lax at my sides, while my mind joins the steam, floating above me.

“Brooke?” Dylan’s voice is followed by footsteps.

Blinking out of the fog, I say, “Uh . . . I’m in here.”

Now, I’m rethinking the whole “this shower is too comfortable to leave” mindset. What if he left because he was hoping I would actually sneak out before he got back? Oh God, I probably look like some idiot who doesn’t understand unspoken signals . . .

My body blushes from head to toe in embarrassment.

“I was afraid you were going to make a mad dash out of my flat before I got back.” His tone is teasing, playful even.

I peek out from the curtain and find him leaning against the bathroom sink, arms across his chest. He looks bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I’m envious of his ability to not appear as ragged and hungover as me.

“Found the bench didn’t ya?” He chuckles. “It’s nearly impossible to get up once you see how comfortable it is.”

Still holding the shower curtain open, I glance down at my legs that are visible from his viewpoint. They’re stretched out, ankles crossed, and making it obvious I’m thoroughly enjoying the bench’s accommodations. “I’m sorry . . . I’m not normally so relaxed in other people’s homes.”

His eyes start to move down my naked form, and that’s when I realize he can pretty much see everything. My body does another full body blush, and I quickly adjust the curtain so that only my face and neck are visible.

Dylan pushes himself off the sink, running a hand through his hair. A mischievous grin consumes his face, and it takes me back to the métro. “I’m going to give you some privacy,” he says, walking towards me. His hand reaches out, brushing across my cheek. “I can’t trust your careless hands with that curtain, and if I stay in here any longer, I can’t trust myself to stay on
this side
of the curtain.” He quirks eyebrow in my direction. “Take your time. Sit on that bench until it puts indentations into that cute little ass of yours. Once you’re finished, get dressed and join me for breakfast . . . And for the record, I want you relaxed in my home,” Dylan says, and then, strolls out of the bathroom.

“I also put some clothes on the bed for you!” he yells. “Feel free to rummage through my closet if what I set out isn’t to your liking!”

In the spirit of feeling clean and refreshed, I choose to forgo my bra and panties. I throw on a pair of Dylan’s briefs, my cut-off jean shorts, and one of his t-shirts. The shirt is far too long to wear without knotting it in the front. And I love that it commemorates,
Baby Says,
one of my favorite songs by The Kills.

My footsteps echo inside the loft as I walk towards the opened terrace door. The view from his flat is spectacular. The sky is slightly overcast, flickers of sunlight shining across the city’s skyline. Paris streets are lively with cars and pedestrians. The busy sounds of people chatting at a café across the street filter in the air. With a nervous flip in my stomach, I pad outside. The concrete is cool against my bare feet.

Dylan looks towards me, smiling. “Good morning.”

I stand beside the table, unsure of what to do.
Don’t be ridiculous,
I tell myself.
The man has had his hand up your skirt. Now is not the time to be shy.
I swallow down my unease.

My eyes admire the city and then fixate on his presence. I almost forgot the effect of him up close. Clear green eyes, messy hair, and colorful tattoos peeking out from his shirt. He’s donned in what I’m finding is his normal no-fuss style—grey cotton t-shirt, black jeans, and bare feet. I never knew bare feet could look so hot on a guy, but holy hell, Dylan in bare feet is damn near erotic. My nerve endings prickle in anticipation of something. It’s like my body expects him to rip off my clothes and fuck me right here on the terrace.
Jesus, Brooke!

He takes a sip from a white—
big surprise
—coffee mug. His hand gestures for me to take the seat across from him. “Please, join me.”

“This view is amazing,” I say while sitting down. My hands nervously fidget with the frayed hem of my shorts.

He nods, glancing towards the Paris skyline. “I spend a lot of time out here when the weather is nice. It’s why I bought the place from my Uncle. The flat isn’t big by any means, but it’s enough, and the view from this terrace is one of my favorite views in the city.”

“Uncle?”

“Not Christophe,” he answers, reading my thoughts. “My Uncle Charles on my dad’s side of the family.” Since I’m starting to piece the whole family tree together, I’m wondering if Millie knew anyone else from his family besides Christophe and Dylan’s father. It’s insane to think that she sent me to a bar to find a guy named Alexandre, who also happens to be the father of the guy I met on the métro. Millie would have called it serendipity.

“Feeling better?” he asks.

“Much better.” I do. It’s amazing what a seated shower and putting on mostly clean clothes can do for a girl. “So how exactly did we end up here last night?”

“Well . . . Lindsay and my brother went back to her hotel room before we were ready to leave the party. We didn’t spill out of there until after five in the morning, and since my flat was closest, we came back here. I could tell you were too exhausted and probably too drunk to make it all the way back to your hotel,” he clarifies. By his explanation, you’d think it’s the most normal thing in the world for me to just end up at his place, as if we’ve known each other for years and it’s something we do all the time.

“So . . . did we . . . uh . . . did we, you know . . .” I’m embarrassed that I’m even asking this question.

“What do you think?” he questions, straight-faced, not giving a damn thing away.

Bastard.

“The details are slowly coming back to me. I remember the uh . . . the terrace.” My skin heats at the memory. “And I remember dancing with you, a lot of dancing in fact, and I remember kissing in the cab on the way back to your place, but that’s about it. I think that’s about as far as it went . . .” I trail off, searching his face for a hint. It stays void of emotion, merely staring back at me while I bumble through this conversation. “I mean, I have a feeling I would know if you and I . . . if we . . . I just know that I would remember every detail of a night like that. I think I would be able to
feel
the reminder of it too.”

Did I really just say that? Out loud?
I groan. My head falls to the table, landing on top of my crossed arms. “I’m blaming every word that’s coming out of my mouth on the fact that I’m still hungover.” My words are mumbled against my skin.

He laughs big belly like chuckles. “I’m just messing with you, Brooke. I guess that wasn’t very nice of me, was it?”

“I refuse to lift my head off this table until you swear not to screw with me like that again.”

Soft laughter spills from his lips. Long fingers slide under my chin, lifting my eyes to his. “I promise. No more teasing. Well, at least no more teasing until you’ve had a chance to eat something.”

I sit up straight in my seat. “Watch yourself, buddy. I’m known to be quite the sarcastic bitch when I want to be.”

He throws the white flag, holding up both arms up. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior, a perfect English gentleman.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s in good humor. He’s pretty adorable when pleading for my forgiveness.

“And for the record, last night was amazing, especially the part with you and me on the terrace. That’s something I’ve put on my ‘let’s do it again’ list.” The words roll of his tongue, hinting at that hidden French accent.

My jaw drops in utter shock, although my body seems more than on board with his suggestion. I squirm in my seat. Glancing down at the borrowed black shirt, I’m relieved, that even sans bra, the t-shirt doesn’t reveal how turned on I am. It’s ridiculous I’d even question my nipples’ visibility. My 34B chest is small enough that I could go braless in all of my clothes, and no one would notice.

“I’m not quite sure what to do with you.” I shake my head, trying to regain composure.

I wish I could find the brazen girl I was last night. I bet she’d handle this situation with a lot less awkward and a lot more “take me on the table, right here, right now.” The heat on my cheeks spreads down my neck and to my chest, leaving me with two options—either change the subject or find a fan to cool my body temperature down.

Choosing the latter, I glance at the shirt. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took it upon myself to borrow this. Once I saw it, I knew I had to wear it.”

He chuckles, waving me off, completely nonchalant about it.

I’ll keep it to myself that I went through his underwear drawer and borrowed a pair of his briefs. “You must think I’m nuts. Sitting in your shower for like forty minutes, and then taking it upon myself to borrow whatever the hell I want. I swear I’m not usually this rude in other people’s homes.”

His hand covers mine, giving a reassuring squeeze. “I told you to make yourself at home, Brooke. And I like that you stayed last night, especially the part where you slept in my bed. You make cute little noises when you’re tossing around in your sleep.”

I hold my hand up. “Please, do not tell me that I snore.”

“No snoring, lots of mumbling, but no snoring.” His smirk reveals that one perfect dimple indented in his right cheek. Dylan releases my hand. He fills a white mug and sets it in front of me. “In order to join me for morning tea, you actually have to drink the tea,” he teases. “And eat at least one of these.” He points to a plate covered in delicious French pastries.

“Tea?” I question, eyeing him curiously.

“I know how you Americans are about your coffee, but I’m half British, and tea is a requirement,” he jokes. A cube of sugar and a little milk are poured into my mug. “Try it, I promise you’ll love it, probably even more than your precious coffee.”