Chapter Two

I wake up to the familiar sound of my phone's alarm clock and to the vibration of my watch in my wrist, both set to go off at 5 am. The buggers don't know anything about hangovers.

Why do I feel like the first pancake of a batch, destroyed and useless? God, everything hurts.

I sit on my bed and try hard to remember how I got here. I smooth my thin, entangled hair as best as I can, but there isn't much hope of it looking any better.

I look around my room. My black heels are perfectly positioned next to each other by my bedroom's door. This gets my attention because there is no way I would put them this way. Even when I'm not drunk I kick them each to one side when I get home. I might be controlling with my routine, but that does not include my home's organisation.

Last night was …

How did I get home again?

I press my fingers to my temple and close my eyes, forcing my mind to go back in time, to last night. All I can think of is my conversation with the girls, the dreadful one about changes. Then, the cute bartender.

Shit. Did I bring someone home?

No, no, I didn't. I remember now taking an Uber. The girls ordered it for me—I was in no state to do it myself. In fact, I don't even know where my phone is.

Before I make myself step out of the bed, I look at myself under the duvet and realise I'm not wearing last night's clothes anymore. I'm still wearing the same lingerie from yesterday though. But I'm wearing a T-shirt too. A large men's T-shirt. I really don't remember taking my clothes off and putting this … oh shit.

I get up and cautiously go inspect my flat, feeling like the last zombie on Earth. Everything is as I left off, even the glass of water I had yesterday morning before heading to work. Then I spot something unusual again, my purse is hanging on the wardrobe. I never ever hang it there. It's always either on the kitchen island or on the couch.

Shit.

It all comes back to me in a frenzy rush.

Cute guy.

I remember him holding me on the stairs, avoiding my fall and saving my face from horrible damage. Then him helping me finding my keys in my purse, getting in my apartment with me, and …

Oh God. He helped me vomit in the toilet. He might also have turned away when I decided it was time to finally pee. And … he put me to bed after dressing me in his T-shirt.

I check my body for any strange signs, but I'm intact. I take a quick peek at my face in the hall's mirror and I almost scream in terror. My bangs look like I slept as a bat, upside down. Black smudges under my eyes. I'm a mess. Yesterday was a mess.

I drink a big glass of water and run to the shower. I'd normally be getting ready for my morning run, but today isn't routine and this already drives me nuts.

After a long shower, I open the left side of my closet. It's all there, perfectly arranged. I already feel calmer. My lingerie collection, my most loyal companions. Each set on their respective hanger. Thongs, hipsters, corsets, bras, bralettes, bodysuits—you name it. In every colour and material, all kept neat and clean, and scented with exotic black vanilla. There are no basic items apart from sports underwear, which are a necessary thing to have anyway.

Remember Carry Bradshaw and her shoes and clothes addiction—ok the woman was addicted to anything fashion-wise—in Sex and the City? In my life, I'm the Carry Bradshaw version of lingerie addiction.

I don't only create them, I wear and live through them. How can I design the perfect lingerie without wearing and feeling them? Are these all my designs? Most of them, but I've got no boundaries or restrictions to a work well done, so I do wear lingerie from the competition, but I only keep the ones I really love. Once I'm happy with my pick, a grey lace hipster and matching bralette, I put on my summertime home office clothes: ripped cut-off jean shorts and a white cropped T-shirt. I grab my purse and head out to Fresh Me Up, the café across the street, where I always get a smoothie after my morning run.

It's still quiet; there's just a guy with a suit on the line in front of me placing his order. The usual two elderly ladies on a table by the window sipping their coffees and the woman that always sits on the couch in the far corner is focused on her computer. No one different than normal, just the background music that changes according to the season.

I don't need to check the menu or today's specials on the chalkboards behind the counter. I always get the same.

By 6:30 am I'm standing in front of Andi, the nerdy guy behind the counter who already knows my order. Ok, he's not just a nerd guy—Andi knows my morning routine more than anyone else. Sometimes when I stop by after my run, he's already prepared my smoothie. But no, he's not that kind of guy, he's much younger than me and this is his student job. Besides, he's not my type, even though I have to admit he's cute with those glasses and timid hazel eyes.

‘Make it double today, Andi,' I say, already holding my phone to pay.

‘No running today?' Andi asks as he begins preparing my order.

‘I'm hammered, if I go for a run right now I'm afraid I won't survive what's coming my way today,' I say.

Andi chuckles as he begins placing the ingredients into the mixer.

Then I hear a now familiar voice from behind me, and I briefly wish to be buried deep under the Earth.

‘How are you feeling today?'

I turn around and it's him, Cute guy. He's taller than I remember, maybe because last night I had my heels on. He's wearing a cap again, this time facing forward, almost hiding his beautiful blue eyes. He's smiling down at me, and I feel my entire body blush. A memory from last night comes back as soon as our eyes meet. His warm hand soothing my back in circles as I spit fire. I also remember him carrying me in his arms and laying me on the bed, and as he does so his face is so close to mine I feel like swimming in his pool-coloured eyes. My heartbeat quickens a bit at the thought of it. This is the last memory I have before blacking out.

‘Hey. Hmm. B-better than last night,' I stammer, completely embarrassed.

I can hear the mixer doing its work in the background.

‘That's a start,' he says with a smirk on his stubbled, sexy face.

God, I almost forgot the damn stubbles, and how fucking hot he is.

‘Here you go,' says Andi, giving me my big green smoothie.

‘What are you getting?' I ask Cute guy.

‘Which one is yours?' he asks.

‘Green tea, spinach, coconut milk, parsley, frozen strawberries, hemp hearts, ginger and mint, no sugar,' intervenes Andi, a strange big grin on his face.

‘It's called Sweet Relief,' I say, as if the name would matter.

Cute guy looks back from Andi at me and says, ‘Sounds just like what I need. I'll get the same.'

God, why is his gaze so intense? Also, did he just stare at my lips?

‘It's on me,' I say, and give Andi the sign I got my phone ready before Cute guy begins to protest.

‘Thanks,' he says simply.

‘I guess I owe you more than a green smoothie. I'm so sorry about last night, and thank you,' I say.

‘Ahh, it was nothing. I'm glad you're okay,' he says and we exchange smiles.

It was nothing? The guy doesn't even know me, watched me vomit the first time he sees me, then puts me to bed in his T-shirt and doesn't even think it was a big deal?

Once my payment goes through and he gets his smoothie, we leave the café together. He hides his face a little bit more under his white cap and opens the door for me.

‘I'm really, really sorry again for last night. I swear this isn't something that happens often to me. Yesterday was a bad day at work, very bad,' I explain myself even though he never asked for an explanation, but I do feel like I owe him one, considering he witnessed my most embarrassing moment ever.

‘Sorry to hear that,' he says, then sips his smoothie with the paper straw without a care in the world, striding the pavement so casually, as if he owned the neighbourhood but it wasn't a big deal.

‘And? Do you like it?' I ask, referring to the smoothie.

‘It's pretty good.' He holds the transparent cup higher and looks at it, as if analysing its contents.

We are walking side by side on the pavement. Like last night, he's wearing sports clothes and is sweaty but still smells heavenly.

‘Thank you for … you know, taking care of me,' I say again.

‘It was no trouble.'

‘I made a fool of myself.' I stare at the pavement because embarrassment's still pretty much the boss of me today.

‘No, you didn't.'

‘You're being nice. I totally did.'

‘Pretty sure you're not the only one to have done it before,' he chuckles.

‘Oh, so I did make a fool of myself.'

He laughs, then confesses, ‘Ok, maybe a little.'

‘Oh my God.'

Oh my God indeed, the way his mouth curls into a hard-not-to-stare grin almost makes me choke on my drink.

‘What? You were the one who extracted the truth from me. I was trying to be nice,' he says in a teasing way.

‘Fair enough.'

We cross the street, he holds the door of the building open, then step inside the lift. We both press our respective buttons and I suddenly feel the urge to ask if he'd like to have breakfast with me. What do I have to lose? The guy already put me to bed before without even knowing me anyways, an invitation for breakfast is nothing in comparison. Just, you know, to show him gratitude. Nothing more than that.

We ride in silence, contemplating our drinks—and each other it seems. I can't avert my eyes from his mouth sucking on the straw. When I lift my gaze, I catch him doing the same with me.

Oh.

The doors open at my floor. Before I say goodbye I find the courage to ask.

‘Would you like to come in and have breakfast with me? My way to say thank you for last night, and give your T-shirt back?'

‘Uhh …' he thinks for too long and I already regret asking and feel embarrassed once again.

‘Sorry, was just an idea,' I say trying to make it sound like it's not a big deal.

‘No, no, no … I'd love to. It's just that I have something going on today and …' he shifts his cap backwards and tugs a strand of his hair behind his ear.

‘It's ok, you don't need to explain,' I say.

The doors begin to close for the second time, and this time he holds them open and, to my surprise, says quickly, ‘How about dinner?'

I don't even give it one second thought, ‘Sure.'

‘Great. I'll knock at your door at eight,' he says with an almost imperceptible wicked smile.

‘I'll be waiting,' I say.

‘Oh, and you can keep the T-shirt,' he says, then the doors close, breaking the connection between our eyes.