Page 47 of Third Time’s a Charm

I know I shouldn’t look in the mirror. It’s asking for trouble. But it’s hard not to.

My skin is blotchy. Mascara creates raccoon eyes. The finger combing I did was, indeed, pointless, because my hair looks like stuffing that’s been pulled out of an old horsehair mattress. When I unwind the sheet, I discover two more love bites. One right in the curve at the top of my leg.

I spin and look over my shoulder to find finger marks on my butt cheeks.

Holy fuck, we did a number on each other. And again there’s the clench, the heat between my legs, and in my cheeks, although there’s nobody to witness my discomfort.

I don’t even glance in the bin. I’ll take his word for it that there are three used condoms. At least we were safe.

Despite the hangover, the aches and pains, and the mess of my hair and face, the endorphins flooding my bloodstream have me more relaxed than I’ve been in years. Rather than dwell on it, I turn the shower on scalding hot and let the water revive me.

I look like death warmed over, but I don’t have the energy for drying my hair. Or for make-up. I barely manage to struggle into a bra. But at least I’m dressed, and the T-shirt I’ve chosen covers those bite marks.

When Jasper is showered, we creep slowly across the road to the café for breakfast, sunglasses firmly in place, our steps slow and measured as if any sudden movement might break us.

We’re greeted with laughter and teasing by the waitress and the couple of customers scattered around the room, all of whom were in the pub last night.

“Finally made it out of bed then,” one of them says.

“Ah, get over yerself, Eric. Can’t you remember what it was like to be young?” the waitress peers at the customer over the Dame Edna style glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Although, if memory serves, you never looked as fine as Jasper here, even back in the day.”

The other patrons laugh. Jasper looks embarrassed, and Eric looks affronted.

I’d like to fall through the floor.

Once we’re settled and shovelling in a big fried breakfast and coffee, Jasper clears his throat and speaks to me for the first time since he got out of the shower.

“Has anything come back to you about what happened?” he whispers. Pretty sure neither of us wants the town to get wind of the fact we were so drunk we can’t remember what we did.

“Bits and pieces. You?”

“Same. I just want you to know I’d never knowingly take advantage—” A deep blush spreads up those sharp cheekbones. The scent of his discomfort almost overpowers the freshness of his body wash.

I hold up a hand. “From the little I do remember, it’s clear we were both willing participants. I’m not worried about that.”

The blush fades, and his shoulders, which had been tense under his T-shirt, relax a little.

It might have been mutual. And it was undoubtedly top-tier, but what happened last night, after I ignored my own vow to spit and not swallow, was potentially a catastrophe.

In my defence, we weren’t wine tasting, so the spit thing was not really an option. Although, you could argue I should have anticipated the dangers after the night at Grahame’s winery. But I don’t normally drink shots. Not since my first year of university, when a night on Jäger-bombs had me unable to function for three days.

I’ve got no doubt that by the time I remember everything, it will prove to be the best, most mind-blowing, life-altering catastrophe I’ve ever experienced. Like a triple three on crack. That super power of knowing the right thing to do, and doing the opposite, was in full diva mode last night.

The question is: What do we do now? Forget it? Pretend it never happened? Do it again? Jasper’s demeanour suggests he’s leaning towards pretending it never happened, but I’m not so sure. Because my head is saying one thing, and my body, fragile as it is this morning, is saying something else altogether.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Jasper

Ican’t take my eyes off Louise as she methodically makes her way through breakfast, pausing between each bite, plush pink lips pressed tightly together, presumably to make sure it stays down.

She’s so pale that her freckles look like burning stars across the cream of her cheeks. Blue shadows under her eyes give her a fragile appearance. But from the little I can remember of last night, there’s nothing fragile about Louise.

The way my body aches, the sting of the nail marks on my shoulders and back, the flashes of memory, the three used condoms, all tell me she gave as good as I hope she got. Thank God. Because if I had any suspicion that I’d in any way coerced her, I’d never forgive myself. But knowing she was an enthusiastic participant doesn’t bring me peace.

On the one hand, I can’t believe I was reckless enough, stupid enough, selfish enough to cross that line with her without coming clean about what’s happening with the business. Before I’ve had the chance to convince Tate to let me try and turn things around. On the other hand, I can’t believe it took me so long to succumb. Because if I’m honest with myself, I’ve been wanting to touch her since she stumbled, flustered and late, into that meeting room. Which feels like forever ago.

In fact, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit there had always been something special about Louise, even as a shy teen, despite her peeing on my shoes and ruining my jumper.