He seems pleased with that answer. “Be honest — you watch them every night before you go to sleep, don’t you?”

“I do not! I only watched them that one time.”

“Liar. You love watching me do my tricks. They’re like your own little version of porn. I bet you have a fucking great time watching my videos…in bed.”

I push him now, hard. “You’re trying to embarrass me, and it’s not going to work.”

“It’s already working.” He laughs, and I narrow my gaze at him. Quickly, I move and go to sit by Michelle, deciding I’ve had enough of the torture of interacting with Jay for one night.

The tiny after-party progresses, and soon I’ve lost count of how many drinks I’ve had. There’s loud music on, and I’m dancing with Michelle in the middle of the room. We’re doing a waltz to a song that was created for booty popping. My drunken brain is pleased by the irony. Our heels have long since been discarded as we prance around, barefoot. Michelle leads, dipping me down so low that my head collides with the floor. She pulls me back up quickly, laughing and apologising as I rub at my skull. I’m too drunk to feel the pain, though, which is a plus.

“Shit, sorry!” she exclaims past furious giggles.

“That’s it, sir!” I shout loudly in pretend outrage. “I no longer wish to be your dance partner.”

“Oh, no, but the cotillion is coming up next,” she replies, putting on a distraught face.

“You fool, you can’t dance a cotillion with just two people. Are you mad?”

I’d like to point out that we’re both currently putting on fake English accents, like we’re in a Jane Austen novel.

“You two are really fucking weird, do you know that?” Jessie says, holding a beer in her hand. Jay has been sitting in the same spot for most of the night, nursing the same drink and watching us with a smile. I can’t tell if he’s amused or just laughing at us, though. At least he finally decided to go and put a shirt on. The other members of his stage crew have gone home, so it’s just the four of us left.

“I think it’s time to call it a night,” he says, standing and collecting my things for me. “Jessie, you and Michelle get cabs, okay? You’re too drunk to drive. I’ll take care of Matilda.”

“Matilda would just love for you to take care of her, Jay,” Michelle says, trying to sound sexy in her drunken state but just sounding like she’s got a bad cough. I scowl at her, and she almost chokes on her laughter.

Ignoring her, Jay helps me into my coat and slides my handbag onto my shoulder. Then he grabs my shoes and goes down on one knee to help me into them, his warm touch on my foot making me think of the phrase “hot and bothered.” Yeah, that’s what he makes me. I wriggle all the while, giggling drunkenly and making his job more difficult.

He finally gets me out the door and into his car, which is parked at the back of the venue. Ushering me into the passenger seat, he straps on my seatbelt, and I’m vaguely aware of his knuckles brushing over my cleavage, but I’m not sober enough to enjoy it.

Damn you, wine!

I’m drunker than I’ve been in quite some time. I think the last time I was this shit-faced was during my eighteenth birthday celebrations, where I spent half the night face down on Michelle’s couch, unable to remember how I’d gotten there. Actually, no, I do remember. It was a bottle of cheap vodka from Aldi that got me there.

When we arrive at the house, Jay helps me out of the car, his arm around my waist as he walks us to the front door. He uses his key to let us in, and I walk to the stairs, holding onto the banister as I take my shoes off and fling them away.

“Stupid painful spikey things,” I yammer on, my head fuzzy.

Jay laughs softly as I put my unsteady foot on the first step. “Hey, let me help you, drunky,” he says, coming and wrapping his arm around my waist. It feels good, so I rest my head on his shoulder. He must realise that it’s going to take too long to get me to put one foot in front of the other, so he simply scoops me up like a bride on her wedding night and carries me.

“Wheee!” I squeal, then squeeze his bicep as we ascend. “You’re so strong, Inspector Holmes.”

“You sound impressed.”

“Well, you’re very…impressive.”

“Oh, yeah? How so?”

I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut. “Ugh, just…everything.”

We reach my room, and he pushes open the door with his elbow, still not putting me down until we get to my bed. Then he lowers me onto the mattress. Somewhere along the way, my arms managed to wrap themselves around his neck, and they aren’t letting go. Instead I practically pull him down onto the bed with me, laughing hysterically when he lands on top of me.

“Ha! You fell,” I say loudly.

His hand covers my mouth as his chest moves up and down with suppressed laughter. “Be quieter, darlin’. You’ll wake your dad.”

I don’t have a response. In fact, my head is clearing quite rapidly with his hand still on my mouth. My eyes are glued to his fingers on my lips, and he must notice because he moves it then. My breathing becomes laboured at our closeness and the fact that we’re on my bed. He notices this, too, bringing his hands to my arms and trying to remove them from his neck. I remember his words from earlier, how he’d spoken about germs and shaking hands and kissing. I want to exchange some kissing germs right now. Really and truly, the germs wouldn’t bother me at all.

“You’ve got to let go, Matilda,” he says gently.

“I don’t want you to go,” I whisper.

He’s smiling and shaking his head. “You’ve had too much wine. Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Just as he’s about to leave, I pounce, grabbing him and hesitantly pressing my lips to his. Fireworks, electricity, and explosive tingles fire through my system at the contact. His lips feel warm and soft and perfect against mine, and that’s when I realise how rigid his body has become. He lets out a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a growl before moving away. His mouth goes to my forehead, where he presses a soft, momentary kiss, and then he’s gone.

As though my body is just as eager to escape the humiliation as my brain is, I fall asleep almost immediately.

Fourteen

When I wake up, it’s just past seven and my mouth is dry. I must have only slept for about three hours. Ugh, why don’t hangovers ever just let you sleep? My eyes feel like they’re bruised, and my muscles ache. All I want to do is stay in bed, so I burrow further under the covers and snuggle into my pillow. Unfortunately, I’m too thirsty to go back asleep, so I decide to go downstairs and grab some water.

It’s just as I’m crawling out of bed that I remember what I did last night. I tried to kiss Jay, and he gave me the platonic forehead kiss before awkwardly leaving the room. I’ve seen enough rom coms in my time to know what the platonic forehead kiss means.

Feeling a sudden urge to work off the embarrassment, I pull my hair up into a knot on top of my head, put on my exercise gear, and decide to go for a cycle. Thankfully, Jay’s still sleeping, so I manage to grab some water and get my bike out of the shed without bumping into him.

It’s a beautiful July morning when I step outside, the birds singing and the sun shining. I can tell we’re in for a hot day, and already I feel slightly better about myself. Everybody does embarrassing stuff when they’re drunk. It doesn’t mean anything.

I pedal fast, gliding down the road. The place where I live can be kind of beautiful sometimes; there’s a long stretch of road that runs along the coast from right outside my house for miles all the way to Howth, a small seaside town about a twenty-minute car ride outside the city. I cycle all the way there and back again, my entire body dripping with sweat by the time I get home.

As I walk into the house, I hear Jay cooking up a storm in the kitchen. In an effort to avoid him, I sneak back out and go around the side of the house to leave my bike in the shed. He must see me through the window, because he opens the sliding doors and steps out.