22
About Last Night
TJ
This is not my bed.
Which means I’m not near my alarm.
Which also means I conked out with Jude.
He’s parked on his side, the sheets riding low on his back, his hair sticking up as he sleeps.
My heart gives a kick. I could get used to this view.
That’s the trouble. Rubbing my eyes, I sit up and look around for a clock, but there isn’t one.
I really hope I didn’t sleep past seven-thirty. I need to be in the office by eight-thirty.
Quietly, I swing my feet out of bed, but the floorboards creak. I freeze in my birthday suit, stealing a backward glance. Jude rustles, flipping over to his back, and I stifle a groan.
He’s hard, his morning wood tenting the sheets.
He sighs, stretches, and I’m sure he’s going to open his eyes, push up on his elbows, and then suggest I take care of matters south of the border.
I would.
But he stays asleep.
Maybe that’s for the best. We might have to talk if he got up, and I still don’t know what to say to him.
I pad out of his room, carefully snicking the door shut behind me.
I hunt for my phone, finding it in the living room on the coffee table. In three, two, one seconds, it will blast off.
But I catch the alarm in time, silencing it.
Good. Don’t want to wake up Jude.
Though to be fair, my alarm beeps every weekday, and I don’t worry about waking him. Today though? I definitely don’t want him up because I don’t know what to say about last night.
Hey, so that was amazing, and I want to sleep with you ten million more times. What do you say we bang our way through the next fifty weeks, seven nights a week, and in the mornings too?
Oh sure, I know it’s a terrible, risky idea, and no way would it work out, but I’m insanely into you, and I promise I won’t develop a smidge of feelings for you.
Well, nothing more than the smidge AND A TON AND A HALF I have right now.
Yeah, this won’t be an easy convo, and we didn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole last night.
After sex, we cleaned up, then when I stood in the hall, pondering where to go—because that’s what I fucking do, I overthink everything—he just rolled his eyes, tipped his forehead to his room, and said, “Come on. I might want to suck you off in the middle of the night.”
Well, I didn’t turn that down. But he didn’t blow me either. We both slept straight through.
And now it’s tomorrow.
Talking about last night is inevitable, but the thought churns my gut.
I gather my clothes from last night, hang the still-damp ones to dry, then jam the rest into the hamper in my room before I head to the shower. Under the water, I try to make sense of what’s next. I try to brace for whatever Jude will say. That was fun, but let’s move on now that we’ve got that out of our systems, shall we?
My chest is a little hollow, knowing that once is probably all we’ll have.
One time can be explained as a mistake. Or a necessity, what with hormones and all.
Anything more is deliberate. As deliberate as playing with fire and thinking you won’t get burned.
When I reach the office, right on time, Alex waits for me at my cube. He holds up a hand to high-five, question marks in his eyes.
I roll mine. “I could ask the same of you.”
He nods in satisfaction, then points his thumbs at his chest. “Oh, yeah. This American loves London.”
“Get it,” I say, then smack his palm.
“And you? Did you finally have that night at the London Sex Exchange with your”—he stops, clears his throat dramatically—“friend?”
As best I can, I rearrange my features, so they’re stoic. I take my time, though, since I’m not sure how I want to answer.
In my silence, Alex leans closer, swings his gaze from side to side. “Dude, I know it’s your roomie. You’re so fucking obvious.”
Are my feelings for Jude written in my eyes?
I try to fashion an answer that doesn’t give anything away, but as I do, it occurs to me I don’t want to tell Alex. I don’t want to tell anyone. I want to clutch last night in my hands, keep it safe as a memory, save it for myself.
Once I share it, then I’ll have to explain it. Well, you see, I slept with my roomie because I’m falling for him, so yeah, sex seemed brilliant, and now it seems foolish, yet I’m dying to see him tonight.
And tomorrow.
And the next day.
And I know this won’t work, but so it goes . . .
“Last night was fun,” I say evasively.
Alex arches a brow. “Got it,” he says, then winks and heads to his cube.
I breathe a sigh of relief, but it hardly lasts when the news manager barks out my name in a gruff English accent.
“Ashford. Come to my office.”
Like a good soldier, I follow him. Alex catches my gaze as I go, his eyes asking what’s up.
No idea, I mouth.
When I head into Richard’s office, he gestures to a chair across from his desk. I sit, nerves racing as he plops into his chair.
“TJ,” he begins. “Your work here is excellent.”
My stomach plummets. The only thing coming next is a but.
The trouble is, I can’t figure out what I’ve done wrong. My stories have been great. My reporting is solid. My work ethic—top-notch.
“So excellent, I can’t keep you,” he adds.
That makes zero sense. “Why not?”
“There’s an opening for a senior reporter. Turns out, our just-completed analysis of consumer behavior says articles on media and advertising fare better than financial pieces, and they want you for the promotion. It comes with a twenty percent raise and a gym membership since 24News just bought a chain of gyms. Must diversify these days. So, there you go. You’re a very good writer, and you were a shoo-in. But don’t let that go to your head.”
“I won’t,” I say, though I’m stoked. Very good is editor speak for head and shoulders above the rest.
But that’s not the most exciting part.
Not by a mile.
Since they’re promoting me, I could maybe use that raise for a new place. I do the math quickly, and I’m guessing the extra might cover the three-month fee for breaking the lease. That way, Jude won’t be screwed on the rent. My mind leaps ahead, picturing getting a studio in Bloomsbury maybe. A flat I can afford on my own with the raise. Closing out my gym membership and putting that money to rent.
Most of all, my mind jumps to the best part.
Seeing Jude on the reg.
Asking him to be my boyfriend risk-free.
My heart thunders so wildly, and I nearly set a hand on my chest to calm it down. Surely, Richard can hear it.
I smile, too big for work, but I don’t care. This solves everything. This is the best news ever. There’s only one question—Richard hasn’t said when the new job begins.
“So, when do I make the change?”
He glances at the wall as if the answer resides on a clock. “Monday,” he says evenly, as if he were giving me a deadline on a deep-dive piece.
Holy shit. I could be making more money in a week. I could have enough to pull this off—romance and work.
Sex and a career.
Jude . . . and me.
“So, I’ll work out the week in finance, then I’ll move desks on Friday,” I say, trying but failing to hide my enthusiasm.
This is some kind of luck. This is like finding Jude on Cecil Court. This is rom-com meet-cute fate.
“No. You can have the weekend off to pack and unpack, of course,” he says.
“Pack?” I don’t have that much on my desk. What’s he talking about?
“Oh!” He chortles, like I’m a silly boy. “The job’s in New York, TJ.”
Ohhhh.
Right.
My shoulders sag.
“Media and TV and marketing. That’s a New York post,” he says, like duh. How did you not know this, you idiot we just promoted?
“Yes. Of course,” I say lightly, swallowing past the knot of disappointment lodged in my throat.
“We’re sending you back to New York,” he adds. “On Friday. So you can start Monday.”
The floor drops from under me, and for a few seconds, the office spins. My head spins. The whole city whips on its axis. “This weekend?” I repeat.
“Yes. Friday is this weekend,” he says, clipped, like he doesn’t have time for ridiculous questions.
Understandable.
“What happens to the job here?” I ask, and I’m not sure why. It’s not like I’ll beg to stay. When you’re twenty-three and get a big, fat raise, you follow the job.
You don’t follow the man.
“We’re going to outsource your post to a freelancer. The New York bureau is eager to have you back. HR has all the details. Hope you enjoyed your time in London. Be sure to go to Fortnum and Mason before you leave.”
I’m dismissed in a daze, and the HR woman waits for me in the hall, then takes me to her office, and we review the details. My flight to New York is Friday night. The company will cover the lease here for three months, as per the contract, and 24News will help me find a new place in the city.
That’s all.
Like a zombie, I walk to my desk, sink onto the chair, and stare out the window.
I’m not daydreaming this time.
I’m freaking out.
On the one hand, this is great news. On the other, this is also awful.
There will be no more Jude after this week. There won’t be any more weeks to get through. There won’t be any merit badges to earn.
There won’t be a London romance.
And I won’t fall in love for the first time in my life.
Instead, I’ll be gone.
Maybe there’s one silver lining, though.