The French Girl(39)
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I wake slowly with the dawning realization that I’m horribly hungover and this is not my bed: the covers don’t feel right, the light from the window is coming from the wrong place, and I’m wearing my bra, which I never sleep in . . . I turn over cautiously to check whether I’m the sole occupant. The bedroom door is slightly ajar, and through it I can see the back of someone very familiar in a kitchen I recognize, drinking a cup of something.
Tom. I’m at Tom’s.
Images of last night surface in a haphazard, fractured fashion, with no suggestion of how one led to another: the dinner; the cab ride afterward; drunkenly climbing the stairs to Tom’s flat; making coffee; kissing.
Kissing. Dear God, kissing. Kissing Tom.
The memory takes hold, and I’m there now, in the secretive gloom of the corridor that leads to his bedroom, the length of him pressing me against the wall—solid, warm, strong. One hand buries into my hair while the other cups my breast; I arch into him. When I kiss his neck I both hear and feel the rough groan in his throat that sends a reckless thrill running through me.
Reckless. Reckless indeed. But—if there was no Seb (how unthinkable, no Seb! Only not so unthinkable now, after seeing him again—as he is, not how I’d imagined him to be—and after kissing Tom . . .), and no Lara or Severine or Alain Modan . . . I wrap up the memory and put it away, a dark, delicious, thrilling secret to unfold slowly and savor much later. But for now . . . I can’t recall what happened next. I look across at the other side of the bed again; it doesn’t appear to have been slept in at all. In the kitchen Tom’s wearing jeans, but no shirt—the same jeans as last night, I think. The tan of the back of his neck contrasts with his paler, freckled shoulders. There is tension in those broad muscled shoulders. Even from here I can sense it thickening the atmosphere. I feel my sense of uneasiness growing. What happened after the corridor? I have a horrendous growing suspicion I may have passed out on him. God, how embarrassing. Perhaps dented male pride is responsible for his palpable tension . . .
What to do now? I debate internally for a moment before I sit up awkwardly, trying to keep the duvet tucked across my chest, and aim for a sheepish smile. “Morning,” I call.
He puts his cup down with a decided thud and turns round. “Tea?” he says unsmiling.
I smother a yawn. “Yes, please. I feel like shit.”
“You deserve to,” he says shortly, then moves out of my line of sight to make the tea, leaving me blinking in surprise. Tom is not just tense; he’s furious. With me.
I have no idea what’s going on, but I definitely want to face it wearing more clothing than this. I look around the room for my dress and find it tossed over a chair, beside my shoes, bag and coat. I have just enough time to scramble into the dress; I’m sitting on the edge of the bed nearest the door, running my fingers through my no doubt ragged hair when he returns, a mug cradled in his hands. He has long, strong fingers: I remember the feel of them buried in my hair, the sureness of his touch. Suddenly I realize he’s been holding out the mug for a few seconds now; I take it quickly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he says shortly, leaning against the doorframe and avoiding my eyes. The breadth of his shoulders nearly fills the open space.
“Funny, I don’t feel very welcome.” I look at him, willing him to catch my eye with a rueful smile and turn back into the Tom I know. But he’s someone different now; the kissing last night did that. I can’t look at him like yesterday or the day before or ten years ago. He has a tangle of dark hair across the planes of his chest, spreading down across his abdomen to disappear in the waistband of his jeans. He didn’t have that a decade ago, nor the muscle bulk; he’s not the same as he was. The corridor secret threatens to burst forth from where I’ve buried it: I want to touch him and I want to cry at the same time. I look away quickly and take a sip from my tea.
He still hasn’t said anything—not Of course you’re welcome, or I’m sorry you feel that way. A defiant anger suddenly sparks within me. I carefully place the cup of tea on the bedside table. “Want to tell me exactly what I’m in the doghouse for, or am I expected to guess?”
That whips his gaze round. “I thought we were friends.”
“We are,” I say, surprised.
“Good friends,” he says impatiently, batting away my response as if I’m deliberately missing the point. “I thought our friendship was important to you. I thought you rated it more highly than to behave like that.”
“Like what exactly?” My voice is rising and I’m standing now. “We were drunk—”
“You were drunk—”
“And you were stone cold sober, were you?” I stare him down; after a moment he jerks his head and looks away, conceding the point. “We kissed. You may have to fill me in on a few of the details given the aforementioned drunkenness, but it’s hardly the scandal of the century.”
“Oh, so it’s nothing, is it? We’ll just carry on as normal, nothing’s changed?” he shoots back, snapping his gaze back onto me. “I thought—Jesus, I actually thought our friendship was something you would take pains to protect, and instead you practically throw yourself at me.” A hot wave of humiliation courses through me. Did I really throw myself at him? How embarrassing, how—God, how immature, how teenage. Though from what scant memories I have, he didn’t exactly seem unwilling . . . But Tom is still speaking. “I get that it’s difficult for you to see Seb—”