Wish You Weren't Here (A Romantic Comedy)

Chapter Thirty Three

You'll all probably be thoroughly unsurprised to know that we're both nursing moderate hangovers when we finally wake up on Friday, after staying out dancing until 3am.

"So, do you have a sore head, too?" Lewis asks as we roll over to face one another in bed. I instantly regret trying to nod in response.

"Everything hurts, actually. Even my hair."

He grins, then winces. "Remind me not to smile either - that's also a bit painful."

"At least I don't feel the urge to puke," I sigh. "I really don't want to do that in front of you."

He strokes my cheek with delicate fingers, his touch trailing delightful heat through my body. His eyes are bright and twinkly despite everything: as if this is somehow the best hangover he's ever had. And I sort of understand that feeling. "I'll hold your hair back over the loo anytime you need me to," he laughs, and I can't help but roll my eyes at such a cheesy line.

"How very romantic of you." Carefully lifting myself into a more upright position, I wait a few beats for the room to stop spinning before I reach for the bottle of water on my bedside table. "Why oh why did we think staying out so late was a good idea?" I groan now.

"We're operating on vacation time, so it doesn't count." Lewis shrugs, flopping onto his back and resting a palm flat against those excellently sculpted stomach muscles. "You know, the same way calories don't count when you're on holiday. Or alcohol units, apparently."

"Well, there were a lot of alcohol units too," I groan. "Thank fuck we got some gyros to soak them up once we left the club. If not, we'd probably feel even worse now!"

Those were good gyros, I think now. Slightly wistfully. My stomach is feeling decidedly empty again and desperate for some sort of carb. Possibly all of the carbs!

"I definitely think we need to eat," Lewis announces, clearly reading my thoughts. Or perhaps he just heard my stomach growl like a grizzly bear! He jumps out of bed in a decidedly unfair display of energy and pulls me to my feet, despite my whines of protest. "Come on, Rubes, you know it will make us feel better."

Luckily, I bought way too much food yesterday when I went shopping, so there's still plenty left over to graze on and we won't need to leave the suite just yet. While I flop on the sofa to recover from my exhausting walk from the bedroom, my hero collects the tzatziki from the fridge (I'm sure you'll be glad to know I eventually did put it in the right place!) and warms up some pita bread in the toaster, slicing it up like soldiers. He lays it out on the coffee table in front of me along with a massive bowl full of Lay's Crisps (also tzatziki flavoured, in case you were wondering!) and a coffee each.

Why does he have to be so damn sweet?

I grab greedily at a strip of pita and dunk it into the tzatziki. The dip is cool and refreshing, and my tired body grasps onto this tiny bit of nourishment as hard as it can. "You've put on quite the spread," I tease Lewis after I've finished chewing. "I'm assuming I'll see you on Masterchef any day now?"

"Of course! And  I think you'll find that my deconstructed Pot Noodle dish will astonish and impress," he chuckles as he sips on his coffee. "All jokes aside, though, I'm actually a pretty decent cook." He pauses for a moment, his expression turning rueful. "Well, as long as you like spag bol, chilli or a stir-fry. Unfortunately, the menu at Chez Lewis is fairly limited."

"Luckily, I like all three of those options," I smile. Unbidden, my mind transports me to Lewis' flat at some point in the future, watching him while he cooks for me! I don't even know what his flat looks like, but somehow, suddenly, I can still picture myself sitting in his kitchen clear as day. Crazy Cassie is running around in circles, not sure if she wants food scraps or pats more; and then it's Lewis' turn to observe me, eyes darkest of cocoa, as I sample the meal he's presented me with.