relax back on the couch, my spoon held limply in my hand as my mind wanders. I can still feel him between my thighs, that soreness he promised, making it impossible to forget about my mistake. Then I shift on the couch and wince, the tenderness of my bottom adding to my memories. With all these physical reminders, I anticipate it to be a good week before I can make any serious effort to move on, and an irrational part on me wonders whether that was his intention. I wouldn’t put it past him. Becker Hunt likes to leave a lasting impression.
Before I can fall too deeply into the whys and wherefores, I sit up straight and return my attention to my laptop, clicking through page after page of jobs, seeing nothing that even remotely fits the bill, and after I’ve lapped the same pages for the third time, I finally give in to my fate and click on an advert for a waitress position. ‘It’s just for the time being,’ I tell myself, scanning the ad for a telephone number. I find it and go to stand, set on calling before I talk myself out of it, but then I remember . . . I have no phone. Because that bastard destroyed it. ‘Shit.’ I then spot an email address on the ad. This should be a simple task, an easy alternative to calling, but the thought of loading my email account stalls me. There could be all kinds of monsters from my past lingering there. Could be. There might not be.
I open my inbox. I shouldn’t have. Three emails are staring at me, two from David, and one from Amy Petitt. My ex-boyfriend and my ex-best friend. Fuckers. I hover over the open icon, my mind whizzing with what these emails could possibly say. It’ll be nothing I haven’t already heard or read. They’ll be full of apologies and excuses. But what do either of them hope to gain? Peace? Forgiveness? And does David seriously think I’d take him back?
I grab the screen of my laptop and slam it shut. Whatever. I’m not interested. I don’t need their apologies, and I’m certainly not interested in easing their guilt for them, or getting back with David.
Any person who can call themselves a friend or boyfriend and cheat is not someone I want in my life. I deserve more. I’m no longer desperate for morsels of love. What’s done is done.
My mental annihilation of David and Amy is cut short when a light knock at my door distracts me, and I jump up, not giving too much thought to who it could be.
Until I swing it open, and I’m confronted with Becker Hunt.
My blank mind gives me no heads-up on what I should say, so I wind up just staring at him like an idiot. And he stares right back, his eyes vacant behind his glasses, obviously no right words coming to him either. An invisible protective shield flies up around me, and after a long period of silence – our eyes the only connection – his potency wins, penetrating my defences, and the shield shatters. My eyes plummet to my bare feet as a result, and I fold in on myself, searching for words.
Becker finds some first. ‘You’re late for work.’
I give myself whiplash when my head shoots up in shock. ‘Pardon?’
He slowly pulls up the sleeve of his jacket a little, looking down at his watch, a gorgeous antique Rolex. His leisurely move gives me a fleeting moment to skate my annoyingly greedy eyes down the length of him. He has jeans on, lovely fitted jeans that hug his thighs in all the right places, and a navy suit jacket over a pale blue shirt. ‘It’s nine forty.’ He speaks with an even, business like tone, releasing his sleeve as he looks up at me, catching me in the act of admiring him. But when I would expect him to give me a cocky, knowing look, all I get is a straight face instead. It’s silly for me to feel injured by his indifference, I realise that, yet I can’t deny the hurt is there. If I didn’t still have the evidence of our encounter stinging my arse, I’d think I dreamed it. ‘You’re late,’ he repeats. ‘Mrs Potts is worried.’
‘I quit,’ I remind him, raising my chin in an act of equal indifference. It doesn’t matter that it’s fake.
His jaw tightens. ‘I didn’t accept your resignation.’