He groans lightly as my nails scrape down his skin, and I wind my legs around him to pull him closer. Heat pulsates between us as he slides smoothly into me, causing me to gasp. I'm already so near to the edge, teetering ever closer to that precipice that's seemed so far away for the last few weeks, and I can't wait to let myself fall. His lips brush against mine, exhibiting a gentleness at odds with the roughness of his thrusts. "Come for me, Louisa," Brody whispers against my open mouth, and I can feel the sensation building up in me, vibrating its way through every inch of my being . . .

And then I wake up. 

Even as I'm still hovering in the confusing limbo between my erotic dream and the sad reality of full consciousness, I know I'm not in my own bed. I also, unfortunately, know I'm not in Brody Maxwell's bed - that was definitely dreamland, but there was not much sleeping being done in there, I can assure you.

So if I'm not in my bed, and I'm not in his bed, then where the hell am I?

I blink the real world into focus and, unwilling to move quite yet, stare accusingly at the ceiling above as if it will provide me with some vital clues. It appears to be coated evenly in functional white paint, so there are no hints there. But flashes of memories from last night are already now returning to me, causing me to inwardly groan at my own stupidity.

Buying several bottles of prosecco for the table, despite the fact everyone was working the next day and it was already nearly 10 p.m.. Making a very emotional speech about how happy I was for my sister and threateningly welcoming Ric to the family as if I was some sort of Mafia don (the irony there being that Ric is the half-Italian one). Crying on Mitch's shoulder about how I'd be alone forever.

Which leads to where I am now.

In Mitch's bed.

This was not meant to happen. I'd never intended to darken his doorstep again or allow him to pass the threshold of mine. Well, I let him way past my entrance last night, didn't I?

What an idiot.

But, in that moment, I was sad. I just needed a bit of a . . . pick-me-up, I suppose?

Not that the sex was particularly uplifting. And, sadly, it wasn't satisfying either. In fact, it was distinctly sub-standard.

I guess this is hardly surprising given my current lack of libido. I guess I'd just hoped that once I'd jumped on that metaphorical horse, it would have all come back to me. I made the correct noises and even performed some killer moves, but it just felt like I was going through the motions. Faking something that was no longer there.

Gritting my teeth at the gentle but persistent throbbing headache I've only just become aware of, I now slowly shuffle my way to the edge of the bed. As soon as my feet touch the floor, I drop down completely into a crouch and start to gather my clothes together. Much to my dismay, I can't initially find my knickers, and, stretching myself around the bed, I eventually spot them on the other side of the room, underneath a chair. They're actually my favourite come-to-bed-and-then-make-me-breakfast-in-the-morning pair, but I need to get out of here before Mitch wakes up, and they may need to be sacrificed to the One Night Stand Gods.

"Lou?" I almost jump out of my skin as Mitch's sleepy face, topped with bed-tousled hair, is suddenly hovering above me. And I'm now very aware that I'm lying naked in the middle of a pile of my own clothes on the floor, like some sort of perverted lunatic. "What are you doing?"

I style it out. "Getting dressed, of course." Since I'm busted anyway, I stroll across the room to retrieve the panties and slightly clumsily slip them on.

"Come back here," he coaxes, patting the space beside him in what I assume he thinks is an enticing manner. It's really not. I didn't intend to ever get back in that bed in the first place. I'm still cursing myself for repeating that mistake.

Anyway, it's not like Mitch to even still want me the next morning! Sometimes, when he came to mine, he wouldn't even stay the night. On one memorable occasion, he managed to leave his wallet, phone, and keys in his haste to escape, and he had to return to knock on my door in the middle of the night. I had been fast asleep and not particularly happy at the disturbance.

"Sorry, but I'd rather not. I need to get to work." (I'm lying, but he doesn't need to know that.)

The rejection seems to bounce off him. "How about we meet for dinner one night next week?" he suggests, apparently undeterred by my abruptness. "We could go to that new Japanese place in the city centre? My treat!"

Wait.

"Are you . . . Asking me on a date?" I ask, blinking disbelievingly at him as I speed-wriggle my way into my jeans and reach for my top. We have never ever done that together. I don't think either of us even have had a desire to do so.

He shrugs, although that eager look from last night is back on his face. "It could be fun," he says, more or less confirming my suspicions.

Now fully dressed, I perch cautiously at the end of the bed and turn to face him. "What's going on, Mitch?" I ask. "Why are you suddenly being nice to me? And why are you asking me out?"

He flushes red, averting his eyes. "I guess I . . . Realised that we could be good together as more than just . . . You know. Sex!"

Suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle shift into place, and I see the full picture. Mitch has clearly had a similar epiphany to me, probably also brought on by Ric's plans to propose. It's that feeling that everyone has grown up around you and left you floundering in limbo; the adult equivalent of all your teenage friends hitting puberty before you do.

The difference between us, though, is that Mitch has chosen to opt for a more familiar path. The convenient one. The "Ooh, if I'm going to try settling down, I'll trial it out  with the girl I was casually screwing for a while!". Lucky old me, eh?

Meanwhile, I've realised I want something epic. I want to be the heroine of my own romcom (preferably heavier on the rom than the com). I want a male lead worthy of my love. I want chemistry and sexual tension, witty banter and . . . Snuggles. Yes, I admit it, Louisa Watson just ultimately wants the perfect guy to cuddle up on the sofa with.

Mitchell Deacon is just not that guy.

And now I'm going to have to break that to him.

"Mitch," I say gently. "Do you actually like me?"

He frowns at my question. "Of course I . . ." he begins, slightly snappishly, then trails off into a brief silence. "Um . . . I think so?" he adds eventually, in a slightly gentler tone.

Gotta love that lukewarm sentiment, eh?

"Are you asking me or telling me?" I roll my eyes because his nice guy mask has slipped too quickly once again. "Because I think you've just panicked because most of your mates are suddenly married or engaged, and you don't want to be the last single guy standing."

"I'm not proposing to you, Louisa." His turn for an eye roll. "I'm just suggesting we should go on a date; see how it goes."

"Well, I can't see it going anywhere, Mitch." I fold my arms across my chest, realising it's time for some brutal honesty. "I'm sure you'll make some other not-so-lucky girl a slightly mediocre boyfriend, but it sure as hell won't be me."

That sounds a bit harsh, right? But don't worry . . . It's Mitch. As you've already witnessed, he doesn't really understand niceties.

"But last night, you were talking about not wanting to be alone and single anymore," he protests, clearly still not getting the hint. 

"Well, sure, but that didn't mean I wanted to be with you." Oops. That one might have been a bridge too far.  He doesn't even wince, though; if anything, he just seems confused.

"So why did you sleep with me then?"

"Because I was drunk and sad, and you were familiar." I shrug, standing to deliver my final blow. I need to get the hell out of this situation once and for all. "Sorry, Mitch. I shouldn't have gone there with you again. I apologise if I gave you the wrong idea."

His eyes flash with sulky understanding. "Fine," he mutters harshly. "No big deal. It's not like the sex was even that good anyway."

And there we go . . . Moody Mitch has reverted to his original form. But I can't even be bothered being wounded by his statement; after all, I'm pretty certain he didn't fake his orgasm! Instead, I pick up my handbag and head for the door.

"You're right," I say as I pull the door open. "It wasn't good. You might want to work on that."

And leaving him with his mouth hanging open in protest, I quietly click the door shut behind me.

Ah, Mitch . . . Turns out a leopard really can't change their spots, eh?

Hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'm feeling so out of practice with writing right now, which means I'm second-guessing absolutely everything . . . Even though I wrote the bulk of this one months ago!🤦‍♀️