I push up to sitting way too fast and my head spins with it. I press my fingers to my lips and hold my breath.
Someone’s slept on the floor next to the bed. A towel and a bowl...for me? I cringe and freak out in an instant. It’s not what I see that tells me whose room this is. It’s the scent. It’s Jackson through and through. Oh, no.
I can’t be in his bed. In his room. In his place!
I try to remember what I can. How I got here. I vaguely remember Pippa. She helped me. But Jackson was with me and then he wasn’t. I don’t remember anything happening. I don’t remember getting out of... My hands clutch my chest as I look down. I’m in his shirt. No remnants of the elf costume, unless you count my thong, which is too negligible and—what the actual...?
I look around the room, at the soothing masculinity of it all, and feel like I’m dreaming, just as I did on the dance floor, against the tree, all those months ago.
But, like then, this isn’t a dream.
In fact, the hangover pounding through my skull, turning my tummy, is nightmare territory. And the fact I can’t remember what happened after the club, I can’t remember what was said. Hell, I can’t remember what happened, not properly, and it’s horrifying.
I know I’m safe though. I may hate Jackson for cutting me off, for treating me like he did, but I trust him. And now I think on it, the person I suspected was Coco during the night, tending to the pounding state that was my head, had to have been him.
The realisation messes me up inside. It makes me think of him looking after me, being the Jackson I’ve known for six years, the one I went to when I had a problem, the one who listened to my rants, my raves. The one I know I’ve fallen for in spite of all he did.
My gut rolls anew but I know it has more to do with the state of my heart than my head now.
Time to move. To apologise, to clear the air, to move on.
Tentatively, I slip my legs from the bed and touch my toes to the wooden floor. It’s warm and inviting—underfloor heating. I should have expected no less from Jackson, with his empire of clubs and his eye for design that clearly extends to his home.
I stand and take a breath. I tug at his T, grateful that my short height means it’s almost to my knees, and head for the door.
He looked after me. For that I owe him some gratitude, along with my apology. I can’t imagine he wanted to spend his evening looking after a slightly tipsy female—okay, a wrecked female—but he did.
I pad out of the room and follow the scent of bacon down the stark white hallway, squinting against the panoramic paintings that are bold with colour and too much for my hungover head. It leads into an open-plan living space; to the right is the living area, to the left is the kitchen, all of which is surrounded by glass that flaunts the city view beyond. I pull my eyes from the glaring sunlight to the kitchen and the man currently facing away from me as he works at the hob.
I don’t make a sound. He doesn’t know I’m here yet and I take full advantage of being able to watch him unobserved. He’s wearing a white T, his grey low-slung pants doing something amazing to his behind and making my mouth dry. My hangover-hazed brain’s already playing out the little fantasy that he’s cooking for us, the morning after the night before.
This is how it should have been four months ago. A night of passion followed by cosy morning comforts. The image lures me in so completely that my eyes prick. My fingers press against my lips as I hide the sob that wants to come out because it isn’t real.
Whatever he’s doing now he’s doing because he feels guilty. He probably pities me. Knowing what a mess I must feel and what a fool I made of myself in my crazy get-up too. I was a bloody elf, for Christ’s sake. An elf!
But he wanted me... The evidence of that was very real.
Until Blondie showed up. Oh, God. I remember her in all her perfection and my insides shrivel, my nausea swelling with it, and he chooses that exact moment to turn. Of course he does.
‘Cait!’ He places the pan he’s working with down on the side, his eyes wide and cautious as he walks towards me.
‘Hi.’ I give him a finger flutter of a wave and look away, my legs binding together as I want to shrink in on myself and he stops.
‘Sorry for...’ I break off. I don’t even know what to say.
‘Hey, don’t apologise,’ he says quickly, his voice so earnest that I have to look at him and the concerned warmth in his gaze makes me want to cry again. It’s the hangover. Just the hangover. ‘I’ve made breakfast—come and sit down.’
I sweep my fingers over my eyes as he ushers me to the slick breakfast bar with its black countertop and cream leather high-backed stools. He pulls one out.
‘Sit, please.’
I do as he asks and brush my crazy mass of hair behind my ears as I shuffle in with his aid, my smile shy as I look up at him and he returns it. Time stills. One second. Two. I’d still swear this wasn’t real if not for the smell of bacon and the very real effect his proximity is having on my pulse. We don’t breathe, we don’t move, and then his eyes flit to the steaming pan on the hob.
‘Hope you’re hungry.’ He pulls away and goes back to his cooking. ‘I’ve done eggs, both scrambled and fried, as I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer. I also have bacon, sausages, pancakes and the coffee’s almost ready. There’s milk, cream, sugar—whatever you need.’
He’s talking so fast and I realise he’s nervous. That fully in control, stoic Jackson is not only nervous, he’s also eager to please, to make me happy. And I don’t want to soften. I don’t want it to douse the anger, the hurt of the last few months. I don’t want it to evaporate just because he’s able to take care of me when I need it. But still I find myself slipping off the stool and walking towards him.
‘Thank you for this. I’m sorry you had to do it. I shouldn’t have drunk so much. I was... I was letting my hair down.’