Strait Laced (Excerpt)

Part 2

"Shuddup!"

I flung my arm out of bed, viciously silencing my phone alarm. Even after the incessant chirping had stopped it still rang in my head, which felt thick and woolly. The covers were warm and soft, the room dark, and I couldn't think of a single reason why I needed to get up. Rolling over, I grabbed a pillow and pulled it over my head, stretching luxuriously until my leg bumped a warm, downy calf.

Bollocks.

Lifting the pillow, I raised my head, pulling the covers aside and staring with a growing sense of horror at the shock of bottle blond hair sticking out from under the duvet. I ran through an instant physical checklist—I was still wearing briefs, and I didn't feel like I'd spent the night having sex with a total stranger. But I had absolutely no memory of how Ben ended up in my bed, or what reason beyond the blindingly obvious there could be.

Holding my breath, I inched towards the edge, letting one leg slide out and hit the floor. The rest of me slithered after. Ben huffed in his sleep, pulled the covers tighter around his neck, but otherwise didn't stir. Releasing my breath on a slow, open-mouthed exhale, I tiptoed to the bathroom and shut the door.

My reflection judged me, stormy blue eyes narrowed in disgust and reproach. I crossed to the sink and leant against it heavily, nose inches from the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot and lined by deep bags, and my breath was rank. Ignoring my shaking hands, I brushed my teeth more vigorously than usual while the shower heated, then threw myself under the scalding water to scrub the sweat and dirt from my skin, if not my mortification and shame.

I wasn't this man. I didn't go to bars and get drunk; I didn't have sex with men I barely knew. Actually, I didn't have sex full stop, or hadn't in the longest time. I had my career to think about, and my whole life to worry about dating and settling down. The last year, particularly, it hadn't been a priority. I hadn't felt I was missing out.

So why the hell is there a naked man in my bed?

We must have had sex. That was the only possible explanation. I racked my brains, trying desperately to remember. We'd been at the club, we'd had a drink after his shift finished, and then a second and a third. I could remember protesting I needed to go, I needed to work in the morning. I could remember Ben laughing, hooking his arm around my neck. I remembered the scent of his armpit, a heady mix of deodorant and clean sweat.

A bolt of longing ran through me, and I had to steady myself against the cold tile wall. Had I slept with Ben and didn't even remember? My first shag in well over a year, with a man so attractive it made me literally weak at the knees, and I couldn't bloody remember it? No, no. I shook my head, chasing the thought away, trying to cut through the clouds in my addled brain and remember.

I would have remembered. I must have remembered. There was no way, after a dry spell so long, I'd been kissed and touched and... whatever, and I'd lost every last detail. That would be too cruel to bear.

Pressing the back of my hand to my mouth to muffle any sound, I struggled to hold it all in. The confusion and shame, guilt and regret. I'd wanted Ben, I could admit that much. But not like this. Not at the expense of my dignity, my self-worth, my memories.

The not knowing was scary. I'd never been blackout drunk, never lost control the way I did last night. What if my drink had been spiked? Was that why I couldn't remember anything?

"Shit, shit, shit," I whispered, pressing the words against the back of my hand, heart rate picking up, blood rushing in my ears, louder even than the roar of the shower. I could have been dead. I could have been another statistic, another body pulled from the canal. Anything could have happened—maybe it already had.