About Last Night

by Ruthie Knox

  The chair slowly spun to a halt, and when she opened her eyes, she saw her computer desk squeezed up against the photocopier, which was squeezed up against the conference table, which was squeezed up against Judith’s tiny compartment of an office only eight feet away. Cath didn’t have a door or a job title or any firm prospects after the exhibit went up in eight weeks.

  She’d come a long way, but she had a long way left to go, and Judith’s announcement confirmed what she’d already known. New Cath was on exactly the right course. What had happened with City was 180 degrees in the wrong direction.

  She couldn’t go down that road again. If she’d learned anything at all since Mom got cancer, it was that all her instincts were backward. She had to plan out her moves carefully, charting the steps, distrusting her impulses, because her impulses always led her astray. If she wanted a man, that was proof positive she should stay as far away from him as possible.

  Especially if she wanted him as badly as she wanted Nev.

  Chapter Eight

  He was waiting for her on the platform. Cath studied him as she approached, soaking up all the differences the day had made in him. Tiny things she might not have noticed before, when he was simply City. The crease between his eyebrows and the tension in his shoulders told her he was tired. His stubble had grown in—not too much, but enough to soften the line of his jaw and draw her attention to the contrast. In the morning, he could’ve modeled for GQ. By late afternoon, he reminded her more of an overworked prince, fretting about the condition of his subjects. It made her want to smooth her hands over his temples and kiss him.

  She should’ve taken an earlier train.

  Unsure what the protocol was for this arranged accidental meeting of theirs, she gave him half a smile and an abbreviated wave, then stepped through the open door into the car. The train wouldn’t depart for a few minutes yet, and there were still seats available. Cath took her favorite one—front row, forward-facing, by the window—and he sat beside her.

  “I thought you didn’t sit,” she said.

  The dimple appeared. “The way I’ve worked it out, this is the closest thing to a first date we’re going to get. On a date, I sit.”

  “This isn’t a date. It’s a commute.”

  “All right,” he said agreeably. “I’ll just enjoy the seat then.” He settled his briefcase between his feet, clasped his hands in his lap, and relaxed back, closing his eyes.

  Cath peered at him suspiciously, worrying the victory had come far too easily, but he stayed still, and after a while she started to feel rude for staring. She reached into her bag for her journal. She couldn’t seem to find a pen, though, no matter how much she rummaged.

  “What are you after?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  He leaned forward, unzipped his briefcase, and pulled out a Mont Blanc fountain pen. “Would you like to borrow this?”

  Yes. “No, thanks.”

  He raised an eyebrow, then shrugged and put the pen away. The train doors slid closed as the garbled announcement came over the loudspeaker. This train terminates at Lewisham. She gave up on the pen hunt and looked out the window.

  They hurtled along underground, her bare arm against City’s suit-clad one, their legs in contact from hip to knee. Swaying into each other now and then with the jerky movements of the car along the track. It was hard not to notice the way he spilled over his seat. The sheer size of him. Hard not to think about what his powerful thigh looked like underneath the suit—the scattering of curly blond hair, the muscles so hard and defined they were like iron plates beneath his skin. She’d run her hand along the length of that thigh, feeling his quadriceps bunch as he thrust into her.

  The memory made her cheeks hot, and she turned her face and pressed it against the cool glass. Note to self: try not to look at him.

  City reached into his briefcase and brought out two bags of chips and three candy bars. “I came bearing gifts. Thought you might be hungry. Do you prefer”—he glanced at the bags—“prawn or salt-and-vinegar crisps? Or if you don’t fancy crisps, I also have these.” He fanned the candy bars out on one broad palm. “I don’t know what you like yet,” he explained, his tone apologetic.

  Cath cast her eyes heavenward in an attempt to keep up a good front, but really, how was she supposed to resist a man who came courting with junk food?

  Resist the man. You can have the junk food.

  She grabbed the prawn crisps and a Wispa bar. “This is a very classy spread. Are you always so charming?”

  “Only when I want something very badly.” He smiled.

  She tried to let that slide, but it slid down between her breasts, wriggled over her belly, and warmed up the junction of her thighs. She didn’t have a lot of experience being wanted—or courted, for that matter. It was making her woozy.

  City took off his tie in that way real men did, arching his head back as he pulled at the knot and unbuttoned his top collar button. Seeing his exposed throat, she couldn’t help but think about the pulse beating there. About pressing her lips to his warm skin, and the expression on his face when he came.

  He folded the tie up neatly and put it in his jacket pocket, then opened the bag of salt- and-vinegar chips. She wondered if it would be possible to surreptitiously fan herself without him noticing.

  The train burst into the sunlight. Cath ate her chips and considered what made City smell faintly of cedar. Cedar hangers in his wardrobe at home? A cedar coat rack at the office? Was it his jacket or something underneath? She could find out if she leaned over a few inches and pressed her face into his shoulder. She managed to restrain herself by shoving a handful of chips into her mouth.

  The train stopped at Heron Quays, then carried on.

  “These are loathsome,” she observed.

  Nev reached over and fished one out of her bag. His fingers brushed hers, and she liked it. “You don’t have to eat them.”

  “I know, but they’re irresistible. Loathsome and irresistible is a perfect combination in junk food. Have you ever had an Oreo?” She reached for one of his chips. She didn’t even really like salt-and-vinegar, but she wanted an excuse to touch him again. She’d been reduced to flirting like a thirteen-year-old.

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “I can’t find them here. They’re these hard chocolate sandwich cookies—biscuits,” she corrected.

  “I know what a cookie is, Mary Catherine.”

  She hated her name, but she loved the way he said it. Like an endearment. Oh, she had it bad.

  “And in between there’s a layer of white … frosting, I guess, though it’s a stretch to call it that. It’s a sort of sweetened, whipped hydrogenated oil paste that the good people of Nabisco refer to as ‘Stuf.’ That’s Stuf with one f, City, if that gives you any idea of what I’m talking about. Anyway, they’re really gross. I love them.”

  Nev smiled. Reaching up, he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his eyes never leaving her face. “Have dinner with me.”

  “No.”

  “Let me walk you home then.”

  “No.”

  “Give me your phone number?”

  She smiled, looking down at her lap. “Sorry. No. It would be a mistake.”

  “Would it help if I promised not to be?”

  Startled, she looked directly at him then. His eyes were earnest, and she wondered what sort of life he’d led that he could even say such a thing. What would it be like to be so sure of yourself that you could promise not to be a mistake? She didn’t know. Couldn’t remember a time when she’d been sure. “You can’t.”

  “I can,” he said without blinking. “I will. I promise you, Cath, you won’t regret me.”

  “But I already do.” Or she should, anyway. She was trying to. Her conscience regretted him, but her body didn’t. And her heart … Well, what did her heart know? Her heart was always getting her into trouble.

  “You regret what happened on Saturday?” The idea deep
ened the line between his eyebrows.

  “Sure. Of course. Don’t you?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Her heart beat faster, delighted with his answer, and Cath acknowledged with dismay that it had already picked a side. So much for fortifications. So much for keeping her distance. It was brain against body from here on out. Mind over matter. Reason versus sentiment.

  Reason said she ought to regret what she’d done—every moment of it, from the concert to waking up in his bed to heading back there later on and spending the rest of the morning tangled up with him, skin to skin. How could she not? Why didn’t he?

  “But what happened— It was …” Her mother’s voice supplied her with a few choice words: Wrong. Sordid. Immoral.

  Except it hadn’t felt like any of those things.

  “Incredible?” he suggested.

  She looked at her lap. Yes, it had been incredible.

  “Erotic?”

  That, too. The most erotic experience of her life—and the most intimate.

  A warm hand curved under her chin, and he tipped her face up to look at him. “Intense?”

  So intense. Everything about the two of them was so intense.

  He brushed his thumb over her cheek.

  “How can you be nice to me when I did that?” she blurted out. “Don’t you think less of me?”

  “For what?”

  “For being drunk in the first place, and then for sleeping with you.”

  A smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “I slept with you, too, love. Do you think less of me?”

  She sighed. It was no use trying to explain it. Why she’d done it, why she shouldn’t have. Why she couldn’t do it again. Her life, and her mother, and the New Cath Reform Project. This wasn’t about morality. It was about judgment. Specifically, it was about her lack of any. But how did you tell that to someone who seemed to have complete confidence in his own?

  She didn’t try. “It’s different for you,” she said. “You’re a man.”

  “I was beginning to fear you hadn’t noticed.”

  That made her snort. “I noticed. I can’t stop noticing. That’s my whole problem.”

  He smiled, barely enough to make his dimple pop, and then he leaned over and kissed her. Just the lightest pressure of his lips on hers at first, but he didn’t pull away, and neither did she. He deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring the shape of her lower lip. He smelled like vinegar, and he tasted of salt. When she exhaled, parting her lips and pressing closer, a low, rumbly groan emerged from his throat that made her want to climb right into his lap. But then he broke it off.

  Leaning close to her ear, he murmured, “I promise you, whatever we are together, it’s not a mistake. It’s too good to be a mistake.”

  He withdrew with a glance of his lips over her cheek.

  Which was probably for the best, since they were on a crowded train, and she wasn’t going to sleep with him again. But even so, she hadn’t wanted the kiss to end.

  He took the Cadbury Fruit & Nut from his briefcase, peeled it open, and broke off a bite. He was giving her space. Or maybe he needed some chocolate. She didn’t know where to look or what to think, and sometimes chocolate helped in this sort of situation. As the train left Mudchute behind, she opened her own candy bar and ate it mechanically, staring out the window.

  When she finished, he took the wrapper, stuck it in his pocket, and then covered her fingers with his. The rest of the way to Greenwich, they didn’t speak. His hand spoke for him, though, reinforcing the promise. Nev knew what he wanted. She was the one who seemed to have developed a split-personality disorder.

  They came to their station eventually. She walked off the train ahead of him, her feet taking her across the platform and down the steps to the high street. Maybe she could simply head home without facing him, and then she wouldn’t have to make any decisions. She wouldn’t have to face the impossibility of turning him away, of saying no when all she wanted to do was say yes. She could just walk home.

  He spoiled the fantasy, catching her wrist and turning her neatly around. He drew her close, pushed his fingers into her hair, and kissed her again, deep and passionate this time, bypassing her brain altogether. Her lips parted. Her eyes drifted closed. She plummeted into him, letting him take what he wanted. What she wanted. What they both wanted so much, it was absurd to try to deny it.

  By the time he’d finished kissing her, she couldn’t breathe or think. She could barely stand up. Nev didn’t look all that much steadier. He looked like he wanted to nail her right up against the brick wall of the nearest building.

  Go for it, she thought.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I wanted to be sure it was still there,” he said. “What we had on the weekend.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s still there.” A rough edge to his voice belied his civilized tone.

  “Yeah.”

  Nev sighed. “I suppose it’s hopeless inviting you back to the flat right now.”

  “Hopeless,” she echoed. The whole situation was hopeless.

  “All right.” He took a step back. “You know where I live. Anytime you want to drop by, you’re welcome.” He gave her a smile, slightly strained. “And I do mean anytime.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, City.” The statement came out all trembly.

  “If you don’t turn up, I’ll be thinking of you,” he said, running his palm down her cheek. “But I’d rather you turned up.”

  He winked and walked away.

  The doorbell rang at half past one, waking him from an unpleasant dream about jury service and long, echoing hallways. It took him a moment to understand the sound, but once he did, he knew it could only be Cath.

  Don’t hold your breath, she’d said. He’d taken her at her word, but he’d hoped she would come nonetheless. And now she was here.

  After buzzing her in, he left the door ajar and went looking for something to wear. Probably best not to greet her starkers. He found an old pair of tracksuit bottoms. When he returned to the hall, she stood in the entranceway, fidgety and smaller than he’d remembered.

  She wore a black T-shirt and shorts. Always black. But now he knew to wonder what color her bra and knickers would be.

  “I woke you up,” she said, with a hint of surprise, as if she’d expected he might be awake and puttering about the flat.

  “I don’t mind.” Should he make her a cup of tea? Play this slowly and carefully, as befitted a delicate situation?

  No. Just as well to lay his cards on the table. He didn’t have much of a hand, anyway. “Want to come back to bed with me?”

  She smiled a little, then looked down at her feet. “I can’t date you. I’m sorry. I’m just too— It’s complicated.”

  “All right.” It was bad news, but he wasn’t daft. Clearly, Cath had intimacy issues. Just as clearly, she hadn’t come here in the middle of the night to tell him to keep away from her. “So do you want to come back to bed with me?”

  “Yes.”

  He reached around her to push the door shut, took her by the hand, and led her to his room.

  He undressed her, tucking them both under the sheet. Her bra and knickers turned out to be pink, her skin already flushed and damp from the walk over. She smelled of oranges and licorice—sweet, tangy, and dark. She’d arrived locked down, but when he kissed her she swung open, so smoothly and easily he could almost forget she’d been otherwise. She was an enigma, this woman. Bold and reticent, passionate and distant. Open and shut. Completely fascinating.

  “What changed your mind?” he asked, tracing the shape of her shoulder with his index finger.

  She smiled, and it made him slightly stupid, as it always did. “My roommate.”

  He’d imagined her living alone. “Oh?”

  “She has this boyfriend who comes over, and they disappear into her room for hours. I can only assume they’re having sex in there—sometimes they come out in robes, all messy—but it’s c
ompletely silent. Like, her mattress is creaking, and maybe her bed is even banging against the wall that’s right next to my head when I’m trying to sleep, and I’m lying there, totally unable to do anything but listen, and they’re both completely silent.”

  “I see.” He didn’t, but he loved listening to her talk. The words poured out of her at a rapid clip. She had so much energy, it seemed to come off her in waves. It turned him on.

  “I’m not sure you do. I’m lying there thinking, Are they quiet because the sex is really bad? But if so, why have so much of it? Once a night would do, right? If it was that bad? But then if it’s really great sex, are they biting the pillows or something? Do they gag themselves? Are they trying to be considerate? Do they think I might not know what they’re doing in there if they stay silent? Because it’s not considerate. It’s creepy.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “And then I’m getting angry, because why should I be losing sleep thinking about my roommate’s sex life? Her sex life is an insult to sex. If it were any good, she’d be making more noise, pillow biting or no pillow biting.”

  He kissed her then, unable to resist that mobile mouth for another second. She tasted minty, like she’d cleaned her teeth before she came around. “So you thought to yourself, I could be having excellent sex right now,” he said against her lips. “Really excellent, really loud, proper sex.”

  She sighed, a performance of resignation. “Exactly. And after that, there was no hope of resisting.”

  “You had something to prove.”

  “I did.”

  “You need my help.”

  “I do.”

  “I’ll help you, darling.”

  He did.

  She wasn’t quiet. Neither was he. While it lasted, they were as close as two people could be. But afterward, she didn’t stay the night.