Then his brain—and his hangover—caught up with his libido, and he winced.
Cracking open his eyes—slowly—he took in his surroundings. Mid-refurbishment luxury villa. Hard and chilly tiled floors against his bare arse where the towels they’d lain on had shifted in the night. Wide glass windows and doors exposing him to the world outside, except for the towel laid across his middle, just about covering his modesty.
No Zoey.
Really, apart from that last part, he’d had worse morning-afters. But not for a long time—not since before he’d married Grace.
Grace.
Guilt flooded him with a heat that beat any tropical summer, and he sat up slowly as he took stock of what he’d done.
For the first time in two years, Grace hadn’t been his first thought on waking. It wasn’t that he’d forgotten her, of course, just that the memory hadn’t been top of his brain the moment his eyes opened.
After she died, for the first few months, he’d often wake up expecting her to be lying beside him. Those mornings were even worse than the others—the ones where he woke up with the knowledge of her death already heavy on his chest. At least with the second sort he didn’t have to deal with hope leaving him all over again.
But this morning—this morning he’d thought about last night first. And that had never happened before.
Wrapping the towel more securely around his waist, he stood up, wishing he’d raided the first-aid kit on the boat for some painkillers.
Where was Zoey? It wasn’t as if she could have gone far, unless she’d been desperate enough to try and sail the boat back alone, which seemed unlikely. Not least because the storm had probably battered the little yacht enough that it would need some attention before it could go anywhere. Also, because she didn’t know how.
So that meant she was still on the island somewhere, and they were going to have to talk about it.
I slept with Zoey Hepburn.
God, he was an idiot. What kind of guy seduced a woman who’d just run out on her wedding? He was pretty sure that wasn’t in Grace’s handbook for How To Look After Zoey. Or wouldn’t have been, if she’d ever written such a thing.
He wished, not for the first time, that Grace had written him a guidebook on how to live life without her. Maybe then he wouldn’t be screwing up the only real friendship he had left so damn badly.
Okay, so. First step. Talking.
No, first step—clothes. Otherwise nothing about this was going to get any easier.
Tugging on his suit trousers, he headed for the large glass doors that led out to the veranda. As he opened them, he spotted Zoey, sitting on the deck just out of sight from the villa, her feet dangling over the water.
She turned to look at him as he approached and he saw everything she was feeling in her eyes. Zoey had always been an open book, unable to stop her every emotion showing on her face. He studied her, to get a read on how she was feeling.
There was guilt there, unsurprisingly. And confusion and...fear?
Ash’s insides tensed at the last one. Why was she afraid? And what sort of terrible friend was he to have left her feeling that way?
Mild panic setting in, he quickly ran over the previous night in his head. They might both be thinking better of it this morning, but in the moment she’d wanted it as much as he had, hadn’t she? He’d checked. Repeatedly. With every step forward they’d taken.
Her responses—physical and verbal—had been enthusiastic enough for him to relax a little. Whatever she was afraid of, it wasn’t his behaviour the night before, he was sure.
‘Good morning.’ His voice came out scratchy from last night’s whisky and he cleared his throat as he sat down beside her—close enough for friends, not so close as to spook her.
‘Hey.’ She gave him a small half smile. ‘Sleep well?’
‘Surprisingly, yes,’ he replied. ‘Given the lack of comfort and the luxury I was promised here.’ Of course, the vigorous exercise and whisky before bed had probably helped with that. But he didn’t mention it. Even though she had to be thinking it too.
Could he blame the whisky? They’d certainly drunk enough of it. But Ash knew himself too well for that. Whisky might lower his inhibitions, but there wasn’t enough in a whole bottle to make him do something he didn’t want to do anyway.