In Drunken Matrimony ✔️

Eleven - Dining With The Devil

Hᴀʟʟɪᴇ

I fancy him.

God, I really fancy him.

He's always been attractive - no one with eyes could ever deny that. His personality too, the charm and charisma he oozes could soften even the hardest of people into putty. He has a talent, for making me smile even when I'm infuriated with him, for making me blush even with his ribald comments and lewd suggestions.

But in that suit, with the arrogance uncertain as he awaited for our songs of praise, my heart fluttered.

I'm attracted to Oliver, so much that I find myself concerned for the future of this professional relationship. One look too many, one flirtatious comment too suggestive, I can see myself falling victim to his charms. Falling into his waiting arms. Falling.

Therefore, I ignored him, shouted at him, and slammed the door in his face.

I'm sure there are better ways to deal with such a realisation, but it appears to have done the trick, at least for now.

He ran me a bath, and while so much of me was insulted, I still found myself itching to laugh. Apparently, it wasn't all that humorous to him, considering the rest of the evening was spent without an uttered word and he took himself to bed without the mumble of a goodnight.

I expected him to wake without holding much of a grudge - he seems like that sort of person - but there is still an air of hostility that hangs around him the following day, noticeable in his clipped retorts and lacking comedy.

Guilt eats at me, but I push it aside. There is no need for emotions to become entangled in this affair - it's simply business. Though, I hope he remembers such tonight when the pair of us join my parents and sister for dinner. This wedge that has found itself between the pair of us needs to subside, if only for a few hours, despite me having purposely placed it there. Talk about instant karma.

"How are you feeling?" I ask him, sipping on the kale juice he grimaces at.

"Stomach ache. Can't tell if it's nerves or because I've eaten too much chocolate." He drags his bottom lip through his teeth, leaving white tracks that bleed with colour a second later, as he wraps his fingers in his mousy hair.

"Well, just try not to throw up." He shoots me an unamused look. "I'm going to go and get ready."

He nods, standing himself. "Yeah, I'll get a shower." He follows me up the stairs and I pull my dressing gown tighter around me, hoping to shield myself from his eyes which I can feel burning into my back.

He continues straight into the bathroom at the top of the stairs, while I go next door to my bedroom. My hair settles in a single sheet down my back, sodden from my earlier shower, but it's still knotted, despite the surplus conditioner I used.

I blow dry it into the curls I know Oli likes, clipping it back from my face to do my makeup. Makeup.

With a groan, I slap my hands to my face. My cosmetics reside in the bathroom - the very same one where the shower is still turned on. I'd wait, but I've lived with Oli for a week now, and so I know that boy can take what seems like hours in the shower.

Begrudgingly, I trudge to the door, knocking on it lightly. "Oliver?" There isn't a response. I try the handle, pleased when it clicks open, and decide to quickly grab what I need, with Oliver's knowledge of such negligible.

I hurry to the sinks, careful to keep my eyes averted from the mirror, knowing that behind me is the shower, and despite the glass being steamed, his silhouette will still very much be clear. My body drops, digging about in the cupboards, and my heart drops further.