How to Fail at Flirting(13)

I was breathless by the time we pulled apart, his mouth pressing to the delicate skin by my ear, and I changed my mind about the slow kisses. Every time he shifted to a new spot, my body lit up.

“Yes, I still definitely want to. I’m just a little drunk,” he said into my neck. The vibrations of his voice rumbled against my skin.

“I’m a lottle drunk,” I said on an exhale, then giggled, stumbling as we crossed the room entwined. “Wait, lottle’s not a word.”

Get drunk in public. Definitely checked that one off.

He flashed a grin. “I like your made-up word. I like it a lottle.” His lips returned to mine hungrily as his hands slid up my body, his thumbs grazing the sides of my breasts through the thin fabric of my dress. His palms were wide, and when his long fingers rolled over my hard nipples in teasing, measured strokes, I moaned in his mouth, reeling at the pressure on my sensitive skin.

“Your body is amazing,” he rasped between kisses, and I dragged my mouth to his neck, the bristle of his stubble against my tongue oddly appealing. He groaned and pulled me to him, the rigid bulge pressing into my stomach.

Yes.

My insides flipped with the excitement of his touch, and my head spun in anticipation.

Yes.

A flush ran across my chest.

No, wait, this is something else.

This was not my stomach flipping; this was more of a churning sensation.

No, no, no.

I pushed backward from Jake as a familiar rising feeling left me lurching for the bathroom door behind me. Falling to my knees, I hunched over the toilet bowl and retched. My body reminded me of each gin and tonic.

Touché, Universe.

After a few moments, Jake swept my hair back and began rubbing circles on my back. “Are you okay?”

I buried my face in the crook of my elbow over the toilet, my stomach slowing its revolt. I was mortified. “I’m throwing up in your bathroom.”

He chuckled behind me. “Yeah, I kind of pieced that together.”

“I wanted a one-night stand, and I did it wrong,” I groaned, keeping my forehead pressed to my arms to avoid him seeing my face and to stop the pristine white room from spinning.

He laughed, quietly, still rubbing slow circles over my back. “Do you want a glass of water?”

I shook my head without looking up, shame prodding at every part of my body. “Can you give me a minute?”

He stepped back and closed the door, leaving me alone.

I can’t believe this is happening.

I flushed the toilet and wiped my mouth before standing on unsteady legs. The reflection in the mirror made me cringe—my cheeks were red and splotchy, and my watering eyes had smeared my mascara.

Pathetic.

I tore open the mouthwash provided by the hotel and swished while doing my best to fix the black streaks around my eyes. My hair was disheveled from his hands running through it in passion and then in pity. My toes curled in shame as I washed my hands.

When I stumbled from the bathroom, Jake was seated at the end of the hotel bed, forearms resting on his thighs, concern etched in his features, and my face heated again.

“I’m gonna go,” I muttered, frantically searching the floor for the purse I’d dropped when we came in the door.

The bed creaked, and he stood, handing me my bag. “Are you okay? Do you need anything? To lie down?”

“No. I’m fine. Going home to die of embarrassment.”

He touched a finger to my shoulder, though it lacked the heat of his earlier caresses. This was a utilitarian touch. He might have just been worried I’d fall over. “Don’t die,” he said in a sweet, low voice that just amplified my embarrassment. “It would be a real shame if you didn’t finish your list.”

“You’re too nice,” I almost whispered, tears welling in my eyes now. I couldn’t help it—his comment had been playful and even sweet, but he didn’t know the half of it. I’d looked at that list as important, like a genuine step-by-step way to get my life back before my job disappeared, and I’d failed right out of the gate.

“It was nice to meet you, Michelle.” He met my eyes.

“That’s not even my real name.” Tears fell down my cheeks, and I sobbed, no, more blubbered. “You’re so nice, and I gave you a fake name.”

I reached behind me to pull down on the door handle. “I’m sorry. I’m gonna go.” Avoiding his gaze, I spilled out into the hallway and hurriedly stumbled toward the elevator.



* * *





    As the cab pulled away from the hotel and I sank into the seat, wiping my face, my phone buzzed with two incoming text messages.

    Jake: I had fun tonight (pre-vomit).

Jake: I hope you feel better.



I cradled my face in my palms, metaphorically punching myself in the stomach for drinking so much. Here was this sexy guy who wanted me, who was funny and polite and ready to go, and I spoiled our night by throwing up. Shaking my head, I tried to quiet old memories.

Why did I think I could do this?

A third text came through. I didn’t want to look. I knew it would be pity or a request to never contact him again. Instead, I tucked the phone into my bag before stepping out at my building.

Later, I steeled myself to open the message with timid fingers.