Two Night Stand: A fun, festive read - perfect for the holidays!

by Portia MacIntosh

  Chapter Eleven

  I woke up on top of the world this morning. New Year, new me, and all that crap.

  I was on a bit of a high, given that I’d patched things up with my sister, and things were going really well with Chris last night, until they weren’t, obviously. But I think I might have a shot at patching that up too, and then 2021 really can start.

  I’m not exactly looking my best. My make-up has well and truly faded to nothing, I forgot to grab my clothes last night, so I only have Chris’s shirt in here with me, and my hair is a strange combination of straight and curly. I don’t look like I’m about to go and ‘get my man’, but I’m working with the tools 2021 has given me so far.

  If I can march up to Chris looking like this, apologise, and tell him how I feel about him, and if he can forgive me and grab me and kiss me then I’ll know I’ve got myself a good one.

  I know, I’m getting a bit ahead of myself, but we really have had this inexplicable connection between us since the start. I feel like I know him – like I’ve known him for a long time – and the more I get to know him, the more I want to find out more.

  Last night was simply perfect – until it wasn’t – but in the cold light of day, after a great night’s sleep, on a luxurious super king mattress and a clean conscience, I can see that Chris only had what was best for me on his mind. He wasn’t trying to mess with me, he was trying to patch things up between me and my family. He isn’t a sociopath, he’s just a well-intentioned person who probably misses his own family beyond words.

  I head downstairs with a real spring in my step. I practically bounce down the stairs, nearly dance into the kitchen, and I expect to find Chris there, cooking, making coffee – there’s no sign of him though.

  I head to the lounge, to that 85” TV he’s so fond of, but he isn’t there either.

  I look at my watch. It’s 11 am. Is he still in bed?

  I head for the stairs, to go and knock on the guest room door, to wake him up because I just want to tell him how grateful I am right now, except something catches my eye at the bottom on the stairs that stops me in my tracks.

  In the hallway, there is a tall wooden chest of drawers. Above it, there are hooks for coats. Below it, space for shoes. And the reason it catches my eye is because only my coat and shoes are there. Chris’s are gone.

  Oh my God. He’s taken off. He’s left me here to fend for myself, to cover our tracks, to clean up the mess he has made.

  I can’t believe it. I thought he was different, I really did. How can I have been so stupid?

  I run back to the dining room where I grab the clothes I regret slinking off last night, charge back upstairs to the bedroom I shouldn’t have been sleeping in, and quickly hurry into my clothes. I need to gather up all signs that anyone has been here and get rid of any evidence that could suggest I (specifically) was here.

  That’s the main downside of ‘having never done anything like this before’: I have no idea what to do now.

  Chapter Twelve

  What do I do? Seriously, what the hell do I do?

  I looked out of the window and, the snow is slowly clearing, but it doesn’t look like any cars are getting anywhere any time soon, so my chances of getting a taxi are slim.

  Did Chris leave on foot? I guess that’s what I’ll have to do too. Take my chances in the snow.

  With it being morning, and daylight, I’ll need to be careful. If someone were to see me… they might call the police!

  Obviously, I forget that the front door doesn’t open until I try it, and then I remember the thing about the garage door. The problem then being that I can’t open the garage door. Only Chris can open it, with the remote control he has.

  Oh my God, has he seriously locked me in here? Is that his plan? Get himself off the hook by throwing me under the bus? I can’t believe him.

  I have a brainwave before I risk hurting myself by climbing out of a window. The bi-folding doors! Chris came in through them yesterday so I imagine the key is inside. I won’t be able to lock it behind me but it will be fine, right? No one is going to trek through a snowstorm to try their luck breaking into a house. No one but Chris, anyway.

  I run to the dining room and I’m a little taken aback when I see Chris on the other side of the doors, letting himself back in.

  ‘Oh my God, Chris, I thought you’d left me here alone,’ I blurt.

  It suddenly occurs to him what it must have been like for me to come down here and see that he was gone.

  ‘Shit, I’m so, so sorry,’ he says. ‘I can’t have been outside for more than 15 minutes. I walked down to the games room, to get you this.’

  Chris holds up an ancient-looking box of Scrabble.

  ‘I figured I had a lot of making up to do and, you’re right, I am selfish, and I do think I know best, so I just wanted to give a little, and if that meant you kicking my arse at Scrabble over breakfast…’

  ‘No, look, you were right,’ I tell him. ‘I’m not delighted at the way you went about it, but calling Claire was absolutely the right thing to do, I feel so much better having spoken to her. We’ve patched things up.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ he says. ‘I’m so pleased for you. And, again, I’m sorry. I just thought…’

  ‘It’s OK, I know what you thought,’ I interrupt him. ‘You were going to tell me life is short, and it is. I feel so guilty, with my dumb family squabbles, when you clearly miss your family so much.’

  ‘You’re allowed to fall out with your relatives,’ he tells me. ‘I just wanted to help you fix things. I don’t know why I’m being so ridiculous I just… I really like you.’

  ‘I really like you too,’ I tell him. ‘So, what now?’

  Chris smiles.

  ‘Well, the snow is starting to clear, so I think our time as Lord and Lady of the manor might be coming to an end,’ he says. ‘But you’ve been right all along, we absolutely shouldn’t be here, and I’ve managed to book us into a B&B on the other side of the island – it’s in a lighthouse!’

  He sounds so excited at the idea of a B&B in a lighthouse. To be honest, I am too.

  ‘So, let me make you breakfast, and thrash me at Scrabble, and then we’ll set about making the place look like we were never here,’ he says. ‘We can check it any time after 4 pm.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ I tell him.

  ‘Set the game up,’ he says. ‘I’ll start breakfast.’

  ‘I could get so used to this,’ I reply with a big, dumb grin on my face.

  ‘Well, feel free to, just imagine it in a much smaller house, moving forward,’ he replies.

  So, I set up the Scrabble board, and make a point of giving Chris some nice, easy letters, because if he starts off on a winning streak he might actually enjoy it, and then head into the kitchen to help with breakfast.

  Chris looks so at home in a kitchen and, it might be an odd thing to say so early on, but I feel so at home with Chris.

  I feel like I’ve stumbled upon something really amazing with him – something I had no idea was coming. I honestly can’t believe my luck.

  Considering I don’t usually do things like this, I have to say, I think it’s worked out pretty well.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to read and review this book.

  If you liked this novella, you’ll love my other Marram Bay books, Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli, Love & Lies at the Village Christmas Shop, Make or Break at the Lighthouse B&B, Single All The Way, and Stuck On You.

  Huge thanks to Joe and Joey for helping me with this one. I love you both so much.

  Free Samples

  If you turn the page you will find sample chapters from Stuck On You and Single All The Way. A novel and a novella both set on the gorgeous tidal island, Hope Island, mentioned in this novella.

  Both of these books are currently free to read with Kindle Unlimited. For a limited time, Stuck On You is available for free with Prime Reading.
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  Enjoy!

  Preview: Stuck On You

  Sadie doesn't have time for finding love. She's too busy as PA for famous artist Damian Banks. When she's not arranging exhibitions, she's organising his dry cleaning or dumping his never-ending stream of girlfriends.

  But when she strikes up an unusual friendship with her desk share buddy, she finds a confidante and a new potential love interest. Problem is, they've never actually met...

  With Christmas just around the corner, can Sadie put herself first for a change and find what she's been looking for all along?

  The brand new romantic comedy from top 10 bestseller Portia MacIntosh. Perfect for fans of Sophie Ranald, Mhairi McFarlane and Zara Stoneley.

  Turn the page to read a sample…

  Chapter One

  It doesn’t matter how many times you break up with someone, it never gets any easier, does it?

  While I’m not actually sure whether or not there is a good way to break up with someone there are, without a doubt, a million terrible ways to do it.

  Dumping someone by text – that has to be the worst one, right? Text, WhatsApp, Facebook Messenger, or any other kind of written digital communication is about as low as you can go. The absolute coward’s way out. And, sure, a phone call is better than a text but only in a similar way to how a broken finger is better than five broken fingers.

  Break-ups must always be done in person, that’s just the way it is – they should probably make it the law, which might sound extreme, but I’m sure it would cut down on a whole host of angry follow-up crimes. I know a guy who got his car windscreen smashed after breaking up with a girl over e-mail – and I’d be tempted to say he deserved it.

  Still, it’s not enough to simply say it to a person’s face, you have to say it right. If you’re wanting to do it as gently as possible there are many little sayings you can reach for. A classic ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ is a fine example. It’s a way to take full responsibility without saying anything negative about your dumpee – of course, we all know if it were true you wouldn’t be breaking up with them in the first place, but still, it’s a way to do it without actually telling the other person what you think is so wrong with them that you don’t ever want to see them again.

  ‘I think we’re better as friends’ or ‘I don’t want to ruin our friendship’ are other ways to try and edge away from things being romantic. Who the hell stays friends with an ex though, seriously? I honestly can’t think of anything worse than trying to stay buddies with someone who has seen me naked. While we’re making these break-up laws, perhaps we should draft something about how exes have to cease to exist, or at the very least move to a different country, after a break-up. I’m sure the world would be a much better place if we could all agree on that.

  If I ever decide to get out of the art business and wind up in politics, I’ll start some kind of Ex-it movement where, if you want to leave a romantic union, one of you has to go and live abroad or something.

  ‘Hi, Sadie.’ I hear a bright, excitable voice coming from behind me. It snaps me from my thoughts. I was miles away. I guess I’m so used to sitting in noisy bars these days I don’t find it all that hard to let my mind wander.

  I turn around to hug someone who clearly has no idea they are about to get dumped. This one is going to be an Ex-it remoaner, I can tell.

  ‘Hello,’ I say with an equal, although completely put-on, enthusiasm. ‘Take a seat, I’ll grab us a couple of drinks.’

  As I gently push my way through the crowd in the busy Belgravia bar I’ve been drinking alone in for the past thirty minutes it does cross my mind whether or not I’m doing the right thing, but the more I think about it, the more I don’t feel as if I have any other option.

  So I buy our drinks, I sit down at the table, I take a deep breath and I give one of my break-up speeches – perhaps my best one yet. I allow myself to think this might actually be a straightforward break-up, until…

  ‘But things were going so well.’

  Oh, God, I can’t handle those sad eyes. I was deluded to think this would be fine, because there’s always a ‘but’…

  ‘I know they were,’ I lie. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. ’It’s just, you know, things are so busy with work, as I said – no one has time for relationships at the moment.’

  ‘But we have to make time, otherwise no one would have relationships at all, no one would have kids, the human race would die out!’

  I mean, what can I actually say to that? I’m kind of over a barrel. On the one hand, things are really hectic at work. On the other hand, working in the art industry is hardly comparable to people like doctors and firefighters who work crazy hours and still find time to have families. I’m going to have to change strategy.

  ‘It’s not you,’ I insist.

  ‘Oh, come on, don’t give me that. How often do we women have to hear that bullshit?’ she replies with a roll of her eyes.

  Once again, she’s got me there.

  I take a deep breath and psych myself up for my next play.

  ‘Listen to me, there is nothing wrong with you,’ I insist. ‘You are a beautiful, caring, intelligent young woman.’

  ‘If I’m so wonderful then why is he having you break up with me instead of doing it himself?’

  I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s because he’s started having me break up with all of his short-lived relationships.

  ‘You can do so much better,’ I tell her honestly. ‘Seriously.’

  She sighs, as though she’s resigned herself to what’s happening. Well, when someone sends one of their employees to break up with you, they clearly don’t care that much about you, do they? She seems more frustrated than she does upset, and I totally feel for her. When you’re dating, and things don’t work out, it’s always disheartening, even if you aren’t head-over-heels in love.

  ‘Yeah, well, so can you,’ she replies. ‘I highly doubt it is in your job description that you have to break up with women for your boss.’

  And she’s right again. It’s a shame he’s dumping this one; she really is intelligent. He usually dates models, and while the stereotype that they’re all dumb isn’t exactly true, it isn’t always exactly false either.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ I tell her. ‘And he is too. I’m here because he didn’t want to upset you.’

  While it may be the case that I have to do whatever my boss demands of me if I want to be able to keep paying my bills, it has crossed my mind whether or not I should be protesting against having to break up with women for him, but I soon realised that I do a much better job of it than he does anyway, so it’s probably for the best. It was my boss who got his car windscreen smashed by an angry ex, in case you haven’t guessed. At least I can be tactful and gentle. And if I ever do get lucky enough to meet a man I like, and a time comes when I might need to dump someone for myself, at least I’ll be well-practised.

  ‘There’s something wrong with him,’ she tells me. ‘He has intimacy issues.’

  I’m absolutely certain he does.

  My boss is the famous portrait photographer, Damian Banks. Well, he’s famous if you know portrait photographers. So while he’s definitely met and hung out with Harry Styles, I doubt their fanbases are going to have any crossovers any time soon.

  Damian is thirty-five years old. I’d say he was newly single were it not for the fact that he probably wouldn’t have considered himself taken during the time he was dating this woman anyway.

  If I were to speak ever so slightly in defence of Damian, his high-profile job has left him wondering who he can trust. On the other hand, he does lap up the attention.

  Damian has models constantly throwing themselves at him, bombarding him with risqué pictures, showing a keen interest in him. He doesn’t know who is an opportunist hoping to be shot by the great Damian Banks and who is actually genuinely interested in him, but the fact they are all models isn’t lost on him. Eventually, he decides all of his dates have an ulter
ior motive and that’s when he dumps them. Or that’s when he gets me, his assistant, to dump them anyway.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, I’ll be fine,’ she says. ‘It’s you I worry about, Sadie. Damian doesn’t value you. He doesn’t value anyone. The only person Damian Banks cares about is Damian Banks.’

  What can I say? She isn’t wrong.

  ‘Stay and have a drink with me?’ she asks. ‘I’ll get us a bottle of something. I can start the healing process right now.’

  I smile. This is always so much easier for me when they don’t cry. Some girls will cry, beg me – as though I can do anything about it – one of them even flirted with me once. No idea where she thought that would get her.

  ‘OK, sure,’ I reply. ‘I’ll just nip to the loo.’

  I fight my way through the crowd to get to the other side of the bar where the toilets are. It’s busy here tonight – as always. The place is overflowing with a mixture of cool arty types and high-flying business execs. It seems like a weird combination, but the two crowds aren’t all that different. You’re not going to find some creative, fresh off the train, who has come to London hoping for their big break in the art world. Any arty type in here is already a big deal. Already a businessperson. They just don’t have to wear a suit. And then, of course, there are people like me, who work for the kind of person who belongs here, and the occasional girl who would get to come here with people like Damian. It only feels right to me that I give them their marching orders here, allowing them one last taste of the Damian Banks lifestyle. Plus, this is Damian’s local, sandwiched somewhere between his apartment and his office, so it’s the easiest place for me to complete my unorthodox overtime.

  As I wash my hands, I look at myself in the mirror – I mean really look at myself. How the hell have I ended up here? How is this my life? Something must have gone so wrong, somewhere, if the closest thing I have to a love life is dumping people for my boss.