Promised (One Night 1)

‘Sorry,’ I whisper. I must have sent him into a tailspin with his cleaning habits.

‘You’re forgiven.’ He sits up and pulls me onto his lap. ‘My pure, sweet girl turned into the devil last night.’

Another memory is jolted. My Livy. ‘Your fault,’ I repeat, because there’s nothing else I can claim, apart from it being my fault, which it is, partly.

‘So you keep saying.’ He stands and places me on my unstable feet. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’

I try to focus on him, annoyed my clouded, post-drunken vision isn’t allowing me to absorb him all. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I’ll give you the bad news.’ He gathers my hair and rests it neatly down my back. ‘You had one dress and you’ve vomited all over it, so you have no clothes.’

I look down, finding I’m completely nude, not even knickers, and I doubt the vomit reached those.

‘They were lovely, but I prefer you naked.’

I glance up and find a knowing look. ‘You’ve washed my clothes, haven’t you?’

‘Your lovely new knickers, yes. They’re in the drawer. Your dress, on the other hand, was rather soiled and needed soaking.’

‘What’s the good news?’ I ask, slightly embarrassed by his acknowledgment of my new underwear and reminder of my vomiting episode.

‘The good news is that you don’t need them because we’re broccoli today.’

‘We’re broccoli?’

‘Yes, like veg.’

I smile my amusement. ‘We’re going to veg like broccoli?’

‘No, you’ve got it all wrong.’ He shakes his head a little. ‘We lie like broccoli.’

‘So we’re vegetables?’

‘Yes,’ he sighs, exasperated. ‘We’re going to veg all day, making us broccoli.’

‘I’d like to be a carrot.’

‘You can’t lie like a carrot.’

‘Or a turnip. How about a turnip?’

‘Livy,’ he warns.

‘No, scrap that. I would definitely like to be a courgette.’

He shakes his head on an eye roll. ‘We’re going to slob out all day.’

‘I want to veg.’ I grin, but he doesn’t give me anything. ‘Okay, I’ll lie like broccoli with you,’ I relent. ‘I’ll be whatever you’d like me to be.’

‘How about less irritating?’ he asks seriously.

I have a raging hangover, and I’m a little confused by how I came to be here, but he’s smiled at me, said some meaningful words, and he’s planning a whole day with me. I don’t care whether he laughs or smiles any more, or if he doesn’t engage with me when I’m trying to be playful. He’s too serious and there’s no sign of a sense of humour, but despite his clipped manner, I still find him impossibly captivating. I can’t stay away from him. He’s alluring and addictive, and as he glances down at his watch, I remember something else . . .

I think you know that I want more than four hours.

The memory thrills me. How long is more? And will he backtrack on that . . . again? Another image worms its way into my fuzzy mind – an image of pursed cherry-red lips and a stunned face. She’s beautiful, well-maintained, classy. She’s everything I would expect a man like Miller to go for.

‘You okay?’ Miller’s concerned tone pulls me from my thoughts.

I nod. ‘I’m sorry for vomiting everywhere,’ I say sincerely, thinking a woman like Miller’s business associate wouldn’t do something so lowly.

‘I’ve already forgiven you.’ He takes my neck and guides me to the bathroom. ‘I tried to brush your teeth last night, but you refused to hold still.’

I’m squirming, thinking it best that I can’t remember half of the evening. The things that I can are not making me feel any better about the stuff that I can’t – Gregory and Ben, for a start. ‘I need to call Gregory.’

‘No you don’t.’ He hands me a toothbrush. ‘He knows where you are and that you’re okay.’

‘He took your word for it?’ I ask, surprised, their heated words coming back to me.

‘I’m not compelled to explain myself to the man who encouraged your reckless behaviour.’ He puts some paste on the brush before putting it back in the cupboard behind the giant mirror that’s hanging over the sink. ‘But I did explain myself to your grandmother.’

‘You called her?’ I ask warily, wondering what he means by explaining himself. Explain that he’s moody, that he’s playing with my heart and sanity?

‘I did.’ He takes my hand and leads it to my mouth, encouraging me to brush. ‘We had a nice conversation.’

I put the brush in my mouth and start circling, just to stop myself from probing him on how that conversation went. But my face must be revealing pure curiosity, even though I have no desire to know what they spoke about.

‘She asked me if I’m married,’ he muses, making my eyes widen. ‘And once we’d cleared that up, she told me a few things.’

My brush slows in my mouth. What has she told him, damn her? ‘What did she tell you?’ The question I really don’t want to know the answer to just slips past my paste and brush.

‘She mentioned your mother, and I told her you’d already shared that with me.’ He stares thoughtfully at me, and I tense, feeling exposed. ‘Then she mentioned that you disappeared for a time.’