EMMIE
Iturn over, sink into the mattress and nuzzle the soft yet firm pillow beneath my cheek.
It’s amaz— It’s not mine.
Hazy memories from the night before mix with the putrid taste in my mouth and the throbbing of my brain, which only seems to increase with every second that passes.
Go back to sleep, I beg my body. But it’s too late, because my brain is too alert.
I bolt up in bed, ripping my eyelids open, peeling the dried makeup apart. My head spins and my stomach turns to the point I press my palm to it and bend my knee, getting ready to run.
But run where?
I have no fucking idea where I am.
The last person I remember being with was the guy I was dancing with.
Fuck. What did I do last night?
I rack my brain for any kind of memory as to how the evening ended, but before I manage to drag anything up, movement in the corner makes my heart jump into my throat and my eyes shoot over.
“Holy fuck,” I breathe, another wave of nausea washing over me.
Theo is sitting in a dark grey, high-backed, wing-armchair. It looks like a fucking throne, and if I weren’t currently suffering the hangover from hell then I might just laugh at him.
He’s still wearing his black trousers and shirt from the night before, only it’s now unbuttoned, exposing his toned chest and abs. Something my eyes can’t resist as they drop to eat up the expanse of rippling muscles.
I might have seen him in nothing but a pair of swim shorts the night of our impromptu pool party, but being here right now in a room alone with him—or at least I assume we’re alone—it feels that much more intimate.
Dragging my eyes back up before my lingering stare starts making his over-inflated ego bigger than it already is, I find his exhausted dark green eyes. It takes me a second to register what’s different about him, but the moment I realise that I’m looking at an entirely different version of the boy I love to hate, panic ripples through me.
I can handle angry, cold-hearted Theo. I have no idea who this person is who’s staring at me with genuine concern in his eyes.
Swallowing down my unease, I fall back on my usual coping mechanism. Sarcasm and spiteful words.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I spit, my lip curling in disgust.
“Me?” he asks, sitting forward and pointing at himself as an incredulous expression passes over his face. “Why am I sitting here watching you?” He pushes from the chair, running his fingers through his already messy hair. “Fucking hell, Emmie,” he mutters, anger deepening his voice, his face pulling tight into a grimace, a look I’m much more familiar with. “Do you remember anything of last night?” he booms, his voice echoing around the room, making me wince and my head pound even harder.
“N-no,” I squeak in a quiet voice, which makes me sound about as weak as I feel right now.
Flicking the covers off me, I slide to the end of the bed as he stands with every muscle in his body pulled tight in the doorway.
His eyes drop to what I’m wearing, and I do the same.
“You undressed me?” I ask, although it’s fucking pointless. I’m wearing his shirt, and I’m pretty sure that I was completely incapable of anything when I left that party last night.
Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, he drags it through his teeth, clearly fighting whatever it is he wants to do or say.
In the end, he goes with nothing and turns his back on me, leaving the room.
All the air I didn’t know I was holding comes rushing out of my lungs as the room suddenly becomes cold and lonely without his presence.
Damn it, Theo.
Why did it have to be him to come to my rescue?
Why?