“Can’t stop, Giles,” I trill, swinging around the curve of the banister. “I’ll come and find you in a bit.” Say, ten years or so, I think as I hobble up the next flight of stairs. Much to my disappointment, there’s a line for the first available bathroom on the next floor, so I move quickly along to what was once our parents’ bedroom suite, squeezing my thighs together so hard, I must look like a waddling duck.
Hell, the door is locked!
Pressing my ears to the wood, I hear voices. Well, giggling. Female giggling. For a split second, I consider hammering on the door with my fist. But the bedroom is now Sandy’s, and it is his birthday. So no need to guess what’s going on in there.
On to the next bathroom… which also has several people waiting.
Thighs squeezed together and ankles crossed, I explain my desperation to the girl in the lime-green dress at the front of the line when she tells me she’s not sure if the couple inside has a really big bag of party favors in there or if they’re having tantric sex. Uncrossing my ankles, I make like Usain Bolt for the next floor.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, the delivery more, move bitch, as I skirt around a couple in a passionate embrace. My bladder feels like a balloon about to burst, my insides squealing like a pig that has discovered it’s about to become pork chops.
Third floor, formerly the children’s suites, and now unused. I dive for the door that was once my teenage bedroom, twisting the handle with one hand as I pop the button on my super skinny, super shiny, super wet jeans. Sweet relief is…
Nowhere near.
“Oh no!” My plea is impassioned, my disappointment as clear as the fluid that will soon be running between my legs because my zipper is stuck! “No, no, no!” I shove my hand between my legs and do the pee dance, which might as well be the rain dance for all the moves.
Stop it, I silently scold.
You’re a grown woman.
It’s just a case of mind over matter.
But the thing about needing to pee is, the closer you are to that toilet seat, the more desperate the feeling becomes, even if that toilet seat is beginning to look more like an unreachable throne.
With something like a growl, I kick off my heels as I draw my hand from between my legs. Gritting my teeth and summoning Hulk strength, I pull on the zipper.
“Oh God. I need this!” I pull again. I pull and pull and—
“Fuck. My finger.” Sliding my hand between my legs again, I stare down at YKK branded to the forefinger of my other hand. I give the sore digit a quick suck, then grasping the open sides of my waistband, I try to wrench them apart.
“Open up for me,” I growl, pulling with all my might. If I’m going to have wet knickers on my twenty-fifth birthday, I deserve a better experience than this. “Just give it to meeee!” I pull so hard that I lose my balance and careen in the direction of the bathroom door. The only thing preventing me from crashing through it is the fact that it swings open at the very same second.
“What are you—” His words halt as his strong arms band around me, stopping my momentum. It takes me a moment to realize I’m pressed against a hard body. A very male hard body. I raise my gaze a little, taking in the breadth of his shoulders and a brilliant white evening shirt that screams bespoke.
“Are you all right?” He frowns and somehow smiles at the same time, like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to work out. I don’t immediately answer. I just stare up at him wondering what kind of deity gave birth to this golden-haired man. His features are truly chiseled—he has cheekbones sharp enough to cut cheese—and his blue eyes are oddly cool.
His brow quirks, and I realize I’m staring. Engaging my brain, I mentally replay the previous few moments.
“I suppose that would depend on your definition,” I murmur, wondering why he hasn’t released me or why I haven’t tried to pull away.
“Was there someone in there with you?” Smooth, dark, and rich, his voice reminds me of the most decadent kind of chocolate. I’m not sure his accent is wholly English, a shade of something other sliding through his vowels. Gathering me to his side, he peers exaggeratedly around the open bathroom door. “It sounded like there was a struggle going on.”
“Only with myself.” No longer stunned from my need-to-go state, I glance around the room for something to help me with my dilemma. Scissors. That’s what I need. Scissors, a little privacy, and a working toilet, preferably in that order.
“What are you doing up here?”