Page 41 of Drunk In Love
I could get used to waking up like this, and I’m hoping more mornings like this are in our future.
Last night was incredible. After the strange, strange night of my date with Zach, I came back here and felt even more disillusioned. How did I end up picking the wrong man every time? Just once, I wanted to meet a nice, decent normal guy, and once again I chose wrong. Like I always did, I blamed myself when it was the men’s behavior.
Then Maxwell showed up. My knight in shining armor that saved me from a night of feeling sorry for myself and drowning my disappointment in wine.
Just when I thought I was undatable—i.e. unlovable—he showed up.
Before my thoughts spiral anymore, I slowly extract myself from bed and look back at a sleeping Maxwell snoring softly. He looks peaceful in the bed, and I almost don’t want to leave him, but I can’t stand here like a creeper either.
I spot Maxwell’s shirt on the top of the fresh laundry basket. I relish the feel of the soft material over me, and it hits me right at mid-thigh level.
I decide I’m going to surprise him by making breakfast. I’m not a chef by any means, but I can whip together a decent meal in a pinch. Since Max was staying here for over a week, I already have staples he enjoys, such as eggs and breakfast sausages.
The smell or the sound of sizzling bacon must have stirred him because I hear the bed groan and turn to see him throwing the covers off.
“Morning, beautiful.”
“Morning, Max. Hope you don’t mind but I stole your shirt.”
I turn back to see him leaning on his forearms, watching me. His eyelids are downcast, and he’s still not fully awake.
“I don’t mind at all. Looks better on you than me.”
Maxwell reaches down to the side of the bed to put on his boxer briefs, and I turn back from the pleasant view to turn down the fire when I feel his strong, warm arms wrap around me.
“Should we talk about last night?” he asks, his voice muffled with his lips against my neck.
“What is there to talk about?” I say.
“You went out with old boy,” Maxwell prompts.
I clear my throat. “Can you please grab me two plates?”
Max sighs, pushing away from me to go to the opposite cupboard. He extracts two plates and puts them on the counter next to the stove.
“Are you trying to avoid the question, Kamaya?”
“No, I just really didn’t want to talk about Zach first thing this morning,” I say, plating our breakfast. I hand one to Max and we both sit down at the table.
“Last night was unexpected for a lot of reasons, but after the date with Zach, I was disappointed because I thought that, yet again, I let my idea of a man cloud my judgment about the reality of him. Then you showed up and well…” I trail off.
“Did he do something to you?” Max asks, defensive on my behalf.
“No, nothing like that,” I say, trying to placate him. “He was just asking me questions about our work.”
Max’s brows furrow. “A date seems like a weird place to bring that up.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
Maxwell sits back in the seat. “So, now do you believe me that something is not right with Zach?”
After last night, I was ready to pin this all on him and let Cecily van Zandt know she has a mole in her ranks. But I would hate to disappoint Brandon by telling him that his friend wasn’t who he thinks.
“Yes, I agree with you now. We just have to tread lightly when bringing this up to Brandon since, like me, he’s not going to want to believe it either.”
“Speaking of our boss, I have something I’ve been meaning to get your advice on,” Max says, setting his fork down and making me think whatever comes next must be serious.
“Okay,” I say, not sure if I’m ready for a serious talk after last night. I want to continue basking in the post-sex glow. Save all of the serious matters for Monday. Remain in the bubble for the rest of the weekend.