I don’t thinkI’m going to survive the night.
Amelia’s been locked up in her room for the past two hours, and I’m sure if she had it her way, she would stay there until everyone arrives tomorrow.
I had a perfectly composed plan. One where I would be nice and welcoming and provide a clean slate for us to clear the air and start anew. That plan went flying out the window the second I spotted her standing in the foyer of my home. Something about having her in my space spikes my senses into high gear. The moment I see her, I want to push her buttons and get a rise out of her, since it's only fair that she feels as unsettled as I do around her, no?
God that makes me sound like an asshole.
I just can’t help it. After all these years of secretly pining for her, I can never let an opportunity pass where I can hold her hand or touch the small of her back. Fuck, I even kissed her hand today. I’m such a goner.
I’ve tried to keep myself busy by working out in the gym, but it only seemed to make me antsier about not knowing what Amelia was up to. Sure, she could be napping, or maybe trying to sneak out of her room and hitch hiking back to New York. The possibilities are endless in my mind.
I realize that Amelia will probably be hungry when she wakes up, so I decide to whip up a late lunch for us. I decided to keep it simple with a chicken carbonara, her favorite, according to an old Instagram post.
Don’t judge me.
And if I know anything about Amelia, it’s how much she loves her carbs.
It takes me about half an hour to cook the chicken in the oven and sauté the pancetta. I don’t want to overcook the pasta, so I’ll have to wait for her to actually leave her room to proceed.
When my patience finally wears out, I decide to head to her room to check in on her.
I knock softly on her door.
Nothing.
I knock a little louder. “Amelia. You okay in there?”
Nothing.
I start to get a little nervous and knock one more time before slightly opening the door. “Are you decent? I’m coming in, my eyes are closed just in case!” I whisper.
After no response, I peek my eyes open and barely spot a sprawled-out Amelia on the bed. Shit, I forgot I left the blackout curtains down. I know how coma-inducing it can be in these rooms when it’s pitch black.
Against my better judgment, I decide to click on the button that will sway the curtains open about half way. I don’t want to completely blind her when she wakes up.
Now that I see her in this light, I can’t help but marvel at her. She seems so peaceful and angelic. The exact opposite description of what I have elicited from her as of late. I’m tempted to stroke her arm and slowly wake her up, but instead I step away and leave since I already feel like I’m intruding on her personal space.
I close the door behind me and get back to the kitchen.
Now I feel as though I’m the one who needs a bit of liquid courage after seeing Amelia, so I gather the items I need to make myself a margarita. Right as I’m about to close the cocktail shaker I hear faint mumblings. I’m pretty sure I hearwhere the hell am I?
I smile like a fool and start shaking up my drink. As I’m pouring the contents into my glass, I spot a squinty-eyed Amelia slowly walking towards the kitchen island.
“Hey there, sleepy head. For a minute I thought I wouldn’t see you until morning,” I say as I slowly raise my glass to my lips.
Amelia grunts and rummages through her purse until she finds her pair of sunglasses and puts them on. She then stretches her arms high above her head, releasing a loud moan in the process.
“There, much better.” She sighs and saddles up onto a bar stool while trying to wrangle her hair back into a ponytail. “You know, you could’ve warned a girl about the dangers of sleeping in rich people’s homes. I didn’t even know what day or year it was until a couple of moments ago,” she jokes.
“Yeah, those black out curtains are no joke. Did you sleep well?” I ask, but she’s eyeing the stove behind me.
“It smells good in here. Did you cook?” Her question is immediately followed by a loud grumble from her stomach. “You didn’t hear that,” she declares.
My lips quirk and I turn around to start boiling the pasta water. “I made some chicken carbonara for us, thought you’d like it,” I say over my shoulders.
“Really?” she asks excitedly, but immediately tries to tone it down. “Oh yeah that’s cool, whatever, I’ll take a couple of bites of it. Not my fave or anything, but I could eat.”
Liar.
