The kiss deepened, and my thoughts turned into a chaotic swirl of this is the worst idea ever and don’t you dare stop. Alex’s hands slid to my hips, pulling me closer, erasing the small distance between us like it had never existed.
My back hit the cold stone of the garden wall, and the sharp chill barely registered against the heat spreading through me.
“Alex…” I started, my voice shaky as I tried to summon a coherent thought. But he wasn’t listening—or maybe he just didn’t care. His lips moved to my neck, hot breath skating over my skin as his voice dropped to a low murmur.
“You’re so sexy, Sophie.”
Oh, bloody hell. My brain was shouting a million different warnings, but my body didn’t seem to care. My hands gripped his suit jacket, my fingers curling into the fabric as I teetered on the edge of something I wasn’t sure I could—or should—pull back from.
“We shouldn’t—” I began, but the words were cut off by a sound that made my stomach lurch.
Rip.
I froze, horrified, as Alex straightened, a smug grin spreading across his face. In his hand were the torn remnants of my panties, dangling like a prize he’d just won at a carnival.
“Something to remember you by,” he said, his tone dripping with that maddening mix of charm and arrogance that made me want to slap him—and maybe kiss him again.
It was like being doused with ice water. Reality slammed into me, and I shoved him away, my hands trembling as I yanked my dress back down.
“You’re unbelievable,” I hissed, my voice sharp enough to cut through the tension crackling between us.
Alex took a step back, his grin never faltering as he tucked the torn fabric into his pocket like it was some kind of twisted souvenir. “Your call, Hollis,” he said smoothly, brushing an imaginary speck of dirt off his jacket. “But don’t pretend you didn’t want it.”
My mouth opened, words forming in my head, but none of them made it out. I wanted to yell at him, tell him he was the biggest jerk I’d ever met, but the truth stuck in my throat like glue.
Because for one brief, horrifying moment, I had wanted it.
Alex didn’t wait for a response. He turned and strode back toward the gala. I stood there in the garden, my chest heaving, my cheeks burning with shame and frustration and something else I didn’t want to name.
I leaned back against the wall, closing my eyes as I tried to gather my scattered thoughts. The distant hum of the gala floated through the air—laughter, music, the clinking of champagne glasses—and it felt so far removed from what had just happened that I almost wanted to laugh.
But instead, I dragged myself away from the wall, brushing off invisible dirt as I made my way out of the garden. The party lights felt too bright, too loud, and I kept my head down as I slipped past the crowd, avoiding Alex’s gaze, avoiding everyone’s gaze.
Location: My flat. Mood: Existential crisis with a side of mild nausea.
What the hell am I doing?
I stared at the words in my diary, my handwriting slanted and chaotic, like even my pen was having a breakdown. I tapped the page with the end of it, trying to think, to process, but my brain was currently a pile of emotional spaghetti.
Anger. Obviously. At Alex for being an insufferable, arrogant flirt who thinks ripping someone’s underwear off is a perfectly acceptable end to a conversation. At Darcy for storming out like I’d personally insulted his ancestors. And at myself, because somehow—despite knowing better—I had ended up smack in the middle of a mess of my own making.
Shame. Because apparently, I have the self-control of a biscuit in front of a cup of tea.
Guilt. Because, well, I should have stopped it. The kissing, the tension, the way Alex had pulled me in like it was inevitable. I should have shoved him away and declared myself a respectable journalist with standards and boundaries.
And then there was something else. The feeling that made my stomach twist in ways I did not want to analyze. The part of me that liked being wanted. That had enjoyed the power of knowing both Alex and Darcy had looked at me like I was worth noticing.
I groaned and slammed the diary shut.
New Year’s Resolution #3: Make better life choices.
Sub-rule: Maybe stop making out with your boss in gardens.