Second Chance (The Agency Book 3) by Elizabeth Grey

Author:Elizabeth Grey [Grey, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Snowflake Publishing
Published: 2019-06-08T16:00:00+00:00

* * *

I strain my eyes open as images from last night hammer into my brain. Too many whisky sours. Far too many Moscow Mules. Laughter. Dancing. Was I in Leicester Square? Fuck, who the hell did I go up West with?

I roll my face to find a cool patch on the pillow and shut my eyes again. I feel like I’ve been vomited up by the beasts of hell, but I have no regrets. I needed last night. I needed to get back to being me, enjoying my life and having a great time with my friends. I yawn, then I have to stop myself crying out as the dryness in my throat scratches every single nerve in my neck and sends shooting pains soaring into my skull.

I bury my head deeper, but then memory and reality finally separate, and the truth doesn’t so much hit me as bulldoze me into an alternate universe. Where am I?

My eyes fly open. Small room, peeling wallpaper, flat-screen TV, bathroom door, plastic fire safety notice. What the shit? How am I in a fucking Travelodge? Classy, Freja. Very classy. Now think. Did I pull a cheapskate last night, or somebody who works in a call centre? Oh fuck, did I fuck Ethan’s brother last night? I seem to remember spending a large amount of the evening appreciating his body. Whilst dancing with him – a lot. And more to the point, where are my clothes?

Shit. Crap. Hell. This is not a great move.

I close my eyes and concentrate hard. I remember going up West with a few people. Rory was definitely there. Neil, Rachel, Euan, and I think Kris came with us too. I have no idea what happened to Georgie. This means I’m a totally shit friend whilst drunk – which she knows – but who else was there? The guy from finance who used to dance on a cruise ship was boring us for a while . . . and flip, so was Myles Stanning.

Quick, brain, think. What’s worse? Banging my boss’s brother, or banging a guy who looks like Homer Simpson?

Or maybe I did both, or neither. Maybe I got here on my own. I look around the room and spot my grey dress folded neatly on the chair opposite. Could I have done that in the state I was in last night? Doubtful.

Just then, the bedroom door buzzes briefly as it connects with a key card. I hear the handle turn. I steady my eyes and brace myself as the apple-chomping carcass of Harry Hopkins enters the room.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he says, taking a huge bite of a shiny green apple.

His crunching gnaws at my tender brain. “How did I get here?”

“You were too pissed to make it back to Greenwich, so I thought I’d look after you.”

I peek under the duvet. Pants and bra are on, which is a good sign. “Did we, um . . . ?”

His eyes go wide. “Strewth, what do you take me for? I might be a wanker, but I’m not about to screw a woman when she’s totally ratted.

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