7. Seven

Seven

T he piercing sound of an alarm jackhammers into my brain, jolting me awake. I flail a hand about in the air until it lands on my bedside clock, stab my finger on the button snoozing the alarm, and say a silent prayer the noise has stopped.

I wrench one eye open and wince as the bright morning sunshine filters through the cream bedroom curtain. Every trace of moisture has evaporated from my mouth leaving my tongue feeling as rough as sandpaper. I groan and heave myself onto my back and press a sweaty palm against my forehead to try and dull the pneumatic drill-like sensation hammering away at both temples.

A glass of water and two paracetamols sit on the glass bedside table. I frown. It doesn't seem like something I'd do when I've come home drunk. I glance down to find I'm still wearing last night's clothes. My crumpled black dress has ridden up to my thighs, but my shoes sit in front of the wardrobe, paired up rather than sprawled all over the floor like they usually would be. I frown again. Something seems off and I don't know what.

I haul myself upright and swing my feet to the floor glancing at my bedside clock. It's half past seven.

Shit!

I've got to get ready for work.

Work.

Art.

Suddenly the noise from the TV in the living room filters through the crack in the bedroom door and I freeze.

There's someone in my apartment.

My mind lurches into overdrive as I consider various possibilities.

Lucy? No. Why would she not have gone home?

I can't remember getting home. Please tell me I didn't bring a guy home.

I briefly close my eyes as the horrid thought hits me. I don't do one-night stands but then again, I don't usually get that drunk. I carefully stand up then reluctantly wobble over to the bedroom door. I swear I'm never drinking again.

I take a deep breath and step out into the hallway then stop in my tracks. Art is standing at the kitchen island buttering a plate of toast as if he owns the place. He's absorbed in Sky News blaring away on the TV.

Another memory of the previous evening snaps back into place. The guy at the bar. Art showed up. He punched him. Did he bring me home?

An unsettling feeling takes hold. We didn't… did we?

I look down at my clothes then back at the bed behind me before I push the thought out of my mind.

No, we didn't.

A million questions swirl around my brain, but all I can really think about is what a treat it would be to wake up to his face every morning.

His hair is swept slightly to the side in his usual coiffed style. A black, collared short-sleeved shirt and grey tailored trousers hang from the toned, gorgeous lines of his lean, frame. I feel like death warmed up and my brain isn't firing on all cylinders, but not every part of my body appears to have got the message and there's fluttering in between my legs.

"Sleeping Beauty awakes," he grins as he notices me hovering. "Do you want a coffee?"

I suddenly feel incredibly self-conscious and shake my head. I feel rough and no doubt look like I've been dragged through a hedge backwards. I'm not getting any closer to him until I've had a shower. "No thanks, I'll get showered and changed first. Erm, did you bring me home?"

He cocks his head to the right as he considers the question. "You don't remember what happened last night, do you?" He doesn't sound the least bit impressed or surprised.

My cheeks flush in embarrassment and I feel totally ashamed by what I'm about to admit. "I remember the creep in the bar and you showing up, but after that I can't remember."

"You were drunk and couldn't walk properly. I brought you home and carried you to bed. I slept on the couch." He points towards the grey sofa.

My eyes slide to the sofa in amazement. He looked after me. "You stayed here all night?"

His broad shoulders roll into a dismissive shrug as if it were nothing. "You could have been sick and choked, so I stayed. I popped back to mine first thing this morning, but I wanted to make sure you were okay when you woke up."

I cringe. "Was I really that bad?"

"Yes, you were." His tone is firm, and I get the distinct feeling he's not impressed with me getting so drunk. "Now go and take a shower. I'll make you some breakfast."

My stomach churns at the thought of food and I pull a face.

"You need to eat something," he insists.

I hesitate. The man is standing in my apartment, acting as though he lives here, telling me what to do and taking over. It's gnawing away at my resolve and I waver as I weigh up whether I've got the energy to challenge him. Because if I don't, I'm allowing him to get closer. I'm letting him in. I'm giving him a sign that it's okay for him to take control.

His dark brows inch upwards when I don't move. "Go on. I'll sort breakfast."

He's got a look in his eye which tells me he isn't going to take no for an answer and I'm not in the frame of mind to argue. As I turn and disappear into the bedroom, I can't deny the thought of him looking after me and preparing breakfast for me in my kitchen gives me a spring to my step.

The hot shower pummels my flesh and wakes me up but does little to dull the ache in my temples. I dry my hair and apply some make-up, so I feel a little more human at least, and take the two paracetamols he's kindly left for me. I pull on a black, long-sleeved Bardot top over black pinstripe trousers and black peep-toe wedges. It's Monday, so I'm hoping there's not much in the work diary for today. I'm never drinking on a school night again.

The smell of toast fills my nostrils as I walk into the kitchen, and I'm relieved that my stomach doesn't turn at the smell of food.

I slide onto one of the black kitchen stools and Art places a plate of hot buttered toast and a mug of dark coffee in front of me.

"I took a guess that you don't take sugar."

"No, I don't." I take a big gulp of coffee as he leans forward on the counter and turns his attention back to the news on the TV. I suddenly feel awkward for everything he's done. "Thank you. For last night and looking after me, and this."

His dark eyes hold mine as his lips twitch into a smile, then no soon does it appears it's gone. "Don't go into that club again. It's a dive. And don't drink so much when you go out. It makes you easy prey. "

I shift uncomfortably on the stool at the telling-off he's subjecting me to. But I know he's right.

"So, if the club is a dive, why were you there?"

He turns his attention back to the TV, avoiding my gaze. "I was in the area. I know the managers of some of the clubs in town. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time."

I'm not sure I buy his excuse but go with it because I don't need to know any more about the club. I remember what happened there. It's the events of the night after we left that are a bit blurry. "What happened after we left?"

"Lucy went home, and I put you in my car and brought you back here."

I take a bite of toast. There's something niggling away at the back of my mind and I can't quite explain it. "Was there anything else? Did we talk?"

"You don't remember what you said, do you?"

The question fills my heart with dread and wipes out my appetite. I drop the toast on the plate, my mind frantically turning over, desperately trying to remember what I said. No doubt it was something incredibly embarrassing. The look on my face must say it all because he tilts his head to the left and smiles as he watches my obvious struggle.

"You asked me if I was your guardian angel, which I thought was quite sweet. Then you said you needed to stay away from me because I'm dangerous, which I thought was intriguing, then you asked me if I was into S & M, which I thought was quite funny."

I want the floor to open and swallow me up whole as the mortifying final piece of the previous evening slots into place. I remember him carrying me from the car. How it felt so good in his arms. How he put me to bed. How he made me feel so safe.

Shit!

He's watching me closely. The smile has gone, and he's waiting for me to justify myself.

I grab my mug and take a long drink of coffee to buy myself some time to come up with a decent explanation .

"I was drunk," is the best that I can manage. I place the mug down and hope he'll let it go. "I always talk rubbish when I'm drunk. Just forget what I said."

"There's a saying. The drunken mind speaks the sober heart."

I pick up the half-chewed slice of toast. "I'm never drinking again. You've got the right idea about not touching the stuff. Do you not drink out of choice or—" I trail off, realising my attempt to change the conversation might have caused me to put my foot in it.

"Or… am I an alcoholic?"

"Erm… well."

"No, I'm not an alcoholic. I don't like the man I become when I drink." He pushes himself off the counter and frowns. "Why do you think I'm dangerous?"

I look out of the window to the high-rise flats and office blocks far away in the distance across the river. I can't admit it's because I think I could fall hard for him, and he'd break my heart into a million tiny pieces when he dropped me and moved onto the next adoring female. But I'm stuck because my brain's still not on top form yet and can't think of a viable explanation to give, that doesn't make me sound like a silly schoolgirl.

"I don't want to get hurt," I admit.

The crease line in his brow disappears. "I won't hurt you," he says softly. "And I won't let anyone else hurt you either."

I want to believe him, but there's darkness to this man that I've never known before and it leaves me exhilarated and scared all at once.

Suddenly his phone rings from the other side of the counter and I see Tara's name flash on the screen before he cancels the call with a frown.

"Come on, we should head into work." He looks at me. "I'll give you a lift, you're in no fit state to drive. We can talk S & M in the car."