Page 43 of Worth Every Game
Her words surprise me, and all I can do is mindlessly repeat them. “Taylor Swift?”
Elly’s wild hair shifts.She’s nodding. “Yeah. Or Amy Moritz. I thought I could be that good.” She moans a little, and the sound has my dick giving an unwelcome throb. Elly definitely doesn’t mean the noise to be anything near sexual, but being this close to her, my hands on her like this, in a fucking bed, for Christ’s sake, has my dick confused. I mentally warn it to keep its head down. “But I’m not sure many people arethatgood. Especially not me.”
I shift her hair away from her ear and whisper, “You’re as good as you want to be. As good as you let yourself be. You decide, El. No one else.”
She makes a little whining noise, and I suspect she’s thinking of saying something else, but a moment later her breathing is deep and even, and I know she’s fallen asleep.
I intend to get up. I don’t need to be here now. I can sleep in the chair, just in case. I’ll just give myself one more minute…
When I wake, I’m disoriented. The light from the window is at the wrong angle. The bed is wrong. I’m still wearing a shirt and suit trousers. This isn’t my room. The pieces slot together pretty quickly, tessellating even more rapidly when Elly gives a sleepy sigh.
Fuck. I’ve been here the whole night, Elly tucked in front of me, my arm resting over her hip. I’m far too hot, my skin unpleasantly sticky. AndChrist Almighty, I have a hard on like nothing else, pressed right against Elly’s arse.
For a moment, I wonder if I’m turned on, then immediately dismiss it. Morning wood. That’s all. It would be wrong to be genuinely aroused. She was drunk last night. Probably still is. And here I am with my dick straining in my trousers while she’s completely unaware of my presence. But I can’t deny there’s something that feels so right about being here with her in my arms. If there hadn’t been, I would never have been able to fall asleep like this, so close to another person. I like my space at night.
I shift backwards, so my hips aren’t pressed into hers. I try to move as little as I can. She’s still asleep; I can tell from thebreathy exhales sounding at regular intervals and her lack of movement. I don’t want to wake her.
I’m like a fucking ninja, the way I’m raising my arm, allowing it to levitate over her hip before I snatch it away once I’m clear of skin, and rolling backwards off the bed.
When my feet silently hit the floor, I check the time: 6.05 am. I stand and stretch, then walk around to the other side of the bed so I can see her face. She’s so peaceful like this.What on earth could have driven her to come home and get so fucked up? To sit alone and drink an entire bottle of wine?I push a strand of hair off her face, and she murmurs in her sleep.So beautiful.
I should go. I’m drifting into creepy territory here. She’s made it through the night and has a full glass of water for when she wakes up, so she doesn't need me anymore.
And I have to go and handle my morning glory before my dick busts a hole in my trousers.
I let myself out of the room, wondering if I’m annoyed or relieved that Elly is still asleep and will likely never know that she slept all night in my arms.
16
ELLY
Drinking an entire bottle of wine by oneself is never a good idea, even if it is to numb the pain of having crashed and burned at the biggest career opportunity of one's life.
I vow that it will never happen again. Neither the wine nor the running away. I can’t keep fucking things up for myself. I can’t bear to think about the Granville Agency or Robert Lloyd, and I’m almost thankful for the hangover that’s bursting my skull like a thousand tiny men are in there battering sledgehammers against my brain, because it means I can avoid thinking about everything that happened yesterday.
I’d rather throw up my insides than replay that shitshow in my mind.
I have no idea how I got myself to bed, and I have weird blurry memories of Jack making food for me. And him lying in bed with me, but that must have been a dream because I woke up alone. He must have sent the housekeeper into my room at some point too because it was unusually tidy when I sobered up enough to notice.
I apologised about drinking his wine this morning, but he didn’t seem bothered and made some joke about my expensive hangover. He was a little weird and awkward about it though, which is unusual for Jack, so I figure I need to at least try to replace it.
When I googled the wine, I nearly wet myself. It costs over thirty thousand pounds.Crazy. I’m eaten up with guilt over it. I can’t afford to replace it, but I figure I have to dosomethingto pay him back, so I’m at the supermarket, searching for ingredients to cook a feast that says, ‘sorry I helped myself to your extremely fine wine and nearly threw it all back up again’.
When I have everything I need, I head to the wine aisle.Ugh, I don’t even want to think of alcohol today, let alone peruse the offerings, but I’ll stomach it for Jack.
I’m inspecting the bottles, searching for a replacement, when I become aware that someone is approaching me with more direct purpose than is usual in the supermarket.
I look up to find Lydia Archer striding towards me, and my stomach does a nervous flap.What is she doing here?
Blind panic races through me, and in my head I can hear the wordsred flag red flag red flagover and over again.
Did she follow me in here?
No. That would be weird. A little crazy. It’s got to be a coincidence.
Other shoppers turn to watch her as she passes them in the aisle. She’s tall and beautiful—intimidatingly so—with that long dark hair flowing down her back and heavy eye makeup. She’s wearing a pale silk shirt and loose navy suit trousers beneath a long coat. She has a Kate Middleton look about her.
“I thought that was you,” she says, not sounding entirely friendly. “The waitress.”