Merry Measure - Lily Morton Page 0,33

morning. You said you’d watched Cocktail and could show Tom Cruise a thing or two about how short men mix alcohol.”

“Oh shit,” I breathe. “I’ve never mixed a cocktail in my life.”

“I know,” he mutters. “After the tenth try at a Dirty Shirley Temple, I realised that.”

“Were they nice?”

“Much nicer than Reception are going to be after we ordered a bucket of maraschino cherries in the early hours of the morning to accompany your liquid artistry.”

I look at the state of the room. “And you’ve slept in this mess?” I say wonderingly. “Didn’t it make you antsy?”

He opens one eye carefully. “Arlo, I’ve discovered that the cure for my obsessive tidying is a vat of cherry vodka. After drinking that and eating my own body weight in cherries, I’d even be able to sleep in your flat.”

“Who knew?” I whisper. I move and feel tackiness on my stomach. “Did we have sex?” I say. “Please say no. I’d hate to think I’d forgotten that.”

He groans and pulls me next to him. “Stop moving the bed,” he says pitifully. I settle down and he pats my hip. “We didn’t have sex. Although you did climb on me and order me to suck your cock.”

“Did I? How alarmingly forceful of me.” I crane my neck to look at him. “And were you okay with that?” I ask hesitantly.

He hums. “I think the fact that you’re wearing more of my come suggests that I was fine with the idea.” I relax and he pats my arse. “Although I was a bit put off by you twirling imaginary guns and shouting, ‘Ride ‘em, cowboy.’”

“Oh dear,” I say faintly. “Alcohol brings out a very slutty side in me.”

He chuckles, and we lie there for a while in comfortable silence broken only by the occasional pitiful groan.

Eventually, I stir. “I’m going to get some paracetamol. Do you want some?”

“Oh my God, marry me,” he says.

“How disappointing, Jack. I’ll have to reject your advances because you didn’t ask me properly,” I say, patting his chest. “I require, at the very least, a forty-two gun salute and an orchestra playing ‘Moonlight Becomes You’ before I’ll agree to marriage.”

“Don’t mention loud things,” he says fretfully

I climb out of bed, staggering slightly. “I feel very rock and roll this morning,” I observe. “And I have to say that my headache is slightly eased by the joy I feel at the thought of Tom’s room bill when they charge him for the contents of that cocktail cabinet.”

I get the tablets and go to make a cup of tea. After a search for the kettle, I shake my head when I find it in the bath for some strange reason. I hand Jack his tablets and a glass of water and we take them together in a sense of grim camaraderie.

After putting the glass on the table, he pulls the covers back. “Get in,” he says.

I smile and snuggle in next to him, enjoying the heat of his body and the smell of his skin. It’s early morning musky and delicious.

I roll over onto my front, resting my chin on his chest and feeling the hairs tickle my skin. “So,” I say slowly. “We slept in the same bed, then?”

His fingers play with my hair. His eyes are a very warm brown this morning. “We did. Although to be brutally honest, I can’t remember either of us making that decision in a sane manner.”

“Fair play. And you’re not running away this morning?”

He looks down at his very naked relaxed body. “Nope. Doesn’t look like it.”

“So, what does that mean?”

He stares into my eyes. “What do you think?”

A sudden sharp knock on the door prevents me from responding.

I raise my head and groan immediately, as it feels like my eyeballs are going to drop out of my head. “Shit. Did you order room service?”

“No. I don’t think we’ll be able to ever do that again in this hotel. I’m actually considering adopting a disguise whenever we go downstairs.”

“I like that idea,” I say solemnly. “Can I have a moustache? I’ve always wanted one of those, but the chances of me growing hair on my face are the same as Mary Berry setting up a cannabis farm.”

“I had a moustache once,” he says mournfully. The signs are clear that he’s starting to regain his brain functions. “Steven made me shave it off.”

“What a wanker. I loved it,” I say dreamily. “Made you look like Zorro.” There’s another knock at the door, and realisation dawns.