“Usually they’re naked.” There was little need for clothes if a woman was staying the night with me. I didn’t do sleepovers to watch Game of Thrones and drink tea.
She scrunched up her nose. “Urgh. That’s gross. And cold. And what happens if there’s a fire alarm?”
“So you’re saying I should leave some clothes on?” I asked.
Her eyes widened and she started to giggle. “Yes! Cover your penis.”
It wasn’t the usual thing I was used to hearing in the bedroom.
“Do you think someone will marry me someday?” she asked, looking down at her bedclothes before collapsing on the small, blue sofa next to the mini-bar.
I pulled on a t-shirt and padded toward her. She needed a glass of water. “Do you just want to marry anyone, or does it matter who?” I asked. I’d never understood women who had a goal of getting married. Didn’t that just happen if it happened?
I crouched at the drinks’ cabinet, pulling out glasses and water.
“I’m just saying that I think some girls are the type men marry and some aren’t.”
I handed her a glass.
“Thank you,” she said. Her eyes were dull and the corners of her mouth downturned. She was usually so upbeat—determined and focused on our preparation. I took a seat beside her.
“I’m not sure that’s true. But then again, I’m probably not the guy to ask.”
“I bet you’re the type that just goes out with models and bloody ballerinas.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever dated a ballerina. Is that a thing?” I stretched my arm across the back of the sofa cushion, angling myself toward her. Why did she have a thing about ballerinas? And marriage? Maybe it was just because we were at a wedding of her ex.
“But I’m not your type, right? I can tell.”
There was no doubt about that, but not because I wouldn’t give her a second glance if I passed her on the street. I would. I’d notice across the room. I might even buy her a drink—or dinner. But getting to know her these past few weeks—she was different. Worth more somehow. “Stella, you’re an attractive woman—”
Before I could finish my sentence, she lunged at me, pressing her lips to mine.
I froze.
Ordinarily, I had no problem with women kissing me. Especially a woman as attractive as Stella. But I knew Stella well enough by now to know her kissing me wasn’t about me. It was all about being at this wedding, the nerves and the alcohol. Tomorrow she’d be shrouded with regret and that wasn’t the way it should be. If I was going to kiss Stella London, she wouldn’t regret it. She wasn’t going to be thinking about her ex or getting caught and she wasn’t going to be under the influence of a bottle of champagne.
She pulled away and covered her face with her hands. “Oh my God. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing. Of course, you don’t want me.”
I didn’t know what to say. “It’s not that, Stella. It’s just—”
She covered her ears and screwed her eyes shut. “No, please don’t give me a rundown. I’m tired, drunk, and emotional. I’m really sorry.” She bounced up from the sofa and headed to the wardrobe, pulling down blankets. “I’m going to sleep on the sofa. Please, can we pretend this never happened?”
Bloody hell, as if I was going to let her sleep on the sofa. The last thing I wanted to do was embarrass her. If she hadn’t had so much wine, I may well have been the one kissing her rather than the other way around. What a shitstorm. “Don’t be silly. I’ll take the sofa if sharing a bed makes you feel uncomfortable.”
“The other way around, more likely. I’m an idiot. I was just lonely and feeling sorry for myself. I’m really, really sorry.”
“Please don’t apologize. I’m very flattered—”
She groaned and dragged the blankets to the sofa, shooing me off as she set about creating herself a makeshift bed.
“I’m serious. You’re gorgeous.” It wasn’t like I could tell her I’d be completely up for getting naked if she were sober and not so obviously sad about her ex-boyfriend or not being married. Or something.
She got under the blanket and turned toward the back of the sofa, her legs curled up so she could fit. “I’d be really grateful if we could just forget all about this.”
I scraped my hand through my hair, desperate to make her feel better. It really was no big deal. “Of course. Consider it forgotten, on one condition: you sleep in the bed. I’ll take the sofa if it makes you feel better.”
“You can’t sleep on here. You’re about six foot fifteen.”