The Rebound - Stefanie London Page 0,23

it would mean that Mike doesn’t have a hold over me anymore. It would also mean that I’ve stopped caring so much about what other people think—because what kind of woman goes out to find a man days after her failed wedding?

Me. I’m going to be that kind of woman. The woman who puts her own pleasure at the forefront, who goes after what she wants—and screw anyone who judges her. I’m going to be that woman who lives life for herself, for her own desires and dreams, and who doesn’t let other people dictate what she should and shouldn’t do.

Renewed, I say my goodbye—promising Sherilee that I really am okay—and then I end the call. Before I lose the nerve, I grab a scrap of paper from the neat desk tucked into the corner of the room and pluck a pen from a mug shaped like an owl.

Presley’s Pleasure List:

1. One-night stand

2. Sex in a forbidden location

3. Tell a guy my fantasy

4. Fall in lust and then walk away

Am I crazy? Is this some coping mechanism from watching my life fall apart?

“Your life is not falling apart,” I tell myself sternly. “You have a great career and you’re awesome at your job. You have a wonderful family, and an amazing and supportive group of friends. You’re independent and smart and you don’t need marriage to feel complete.”

It sounds a little wanky saying it out loud, but I read an article about affirmations recently that said verbalising things is a good way to keep your mind focused on how you want to feel. And right now, I want to feel empowered and sexy and in charge.

I look down at my list and read through the points. Okay, so maybe having a list is a little bit like having a plan...which I’m not supposed to be doing. Old habits die hard, okay?

But surely it won’t hurt to have a little guidance for what to do next. After all, I’m not due to go back to work for another two weeks and I am not about to waste my “honeymoon time” wallowing about a man who never loved me.

Instead, I am going to get some.

And luckily for me, the perfect guy has left me his phone number.

CHAPTER TEN

Sebastian

I’M SURPRISED WHEN Presley texts me later that day. I thought she might have woken up with a pounding head, full of regrets and not wanting to be reminded of anyone associated with Mike. But to my surprise and pleasure, my phone screen lights up with an unfamiliar number.

Hey, it’s Presley. Thanks for breakfast this morning. You saved me.

I’d found her sleeping curled up like a puppy in her bed—hands tucked under her pillow, body scrunched into a little ball. It’s like someone decided to KonMari a human to fit into the smallest space possible. It was possibly the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.

All good. I thought food might help ease the hangover.

No hangover.

I raise an eyebrow.

Are you superhuman or something? You should have felt like roadkill this morning.

I bounce back well.

She punctuates that text with a winking-face emoji and I shake my head. I have to take my hat off to the woman—she’s taking everything in stride as best she can and putting on a brave face. I respect that.

I’m about to type a reply when three little dots appear, indicating she’s got more to say.

Can I take you for a drink tonight? I feel like I cut our evening short last night. I promise I’ll eat something first this time.

Okay, now I’m really surprised. I’d left my number with the hope that she’d get in contact, because I still want to talk to her about Mike.

But that’s not where my mind goes when I read her text.

Oh no, my mind goes somewhere dark and dirty and delicious. Somewhere so bad I immediately reject the fantasy, shaking my head as if I need to physically wipe away the mental images.

What do you have in mind?

Dinner, drinks and dancing.

Dancing. I swallow and find my mouth dry. My body fires up in response to the memory of her tight body tucked against mine, of the music and the teasing look in her eyes, and then there’s the fact that I haven’t got laid in a while.

That’s what this is—a physical craving. I’d be feeling it for any beautiful, funny woman in my presence. It’s not Presley-specific...at least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

Presley’s typing again.

How about Mademoiselle? They do sharing plates and great drinks. 9pm?

I don’t