I woke at some time in the small hours, to what sounded like an earthquake.
It was just Michelle, snoring.
She’d gone and stolen most of the duvet too.
Head pounding from all the bubbly we’d quaffed during our “romantic” Valentine’s dinner—a dinner that Speedos-bloke resolutely refused to materialise during—I dragged myself out of bed. The room was pitch black, but I didn’t want to turn on a light in case I woke Michelle. I stumbled towards the en suite, wondering why I wasn’t wearing my undies. I didn’t normally sleep with anything on, but you’d have thought I’d have been a bit more modest, what with sharing a bed with my sister. I suppose I’d have to blame the Prosecco. Bubbly wine always did go right to my head. And to my bladder.
The bathroom door was heavy to open and it took all my strength.
And then I was standing in the light.
In a corridor.
Stark bollock naked.
The door clicked shut behind me.
No, not just oh bugger.
Bloody bollocking buggeration!
I knocked on the door softly, not wanting to wake anyone. Well, okay, I wanted to wake Michelle, but I didn’t want to alert the whole corridor to the fact there was a naked man on the prowl outside.
“Chelle!” I hissed, but it was no use. Her snoring got even louder, if that was possible. “Bloody buggering bastards!”
Swearing wasn’t really helping me, but it was vaguely therapeutic, and at least it took my mind off my full bladder. I leaned back against the door, trying to figure out what to do. Perhaps there would be an unlocked broom cupboard somewhere with a handy pile of rags I could fashion into a loincloth or something. Sobering right up, I padded down the corridor. Every room seemed to have a number on the door, though. God, I wasn’t going to have to go down to reception, was I? The thought made my balls crawl up inside my body and my heart pound. I was so caught up in my fear, I didn’t hear the footsteps approaching until a figure rounded the bend in the corridor.
Speedos-bloke, to be precise. He stood there, looking utterly edible in what could only be described as pulling clothes—a leather jacket over a tight orange T-shirt and even tighter black jeans—just a few feet away. He had a room key card in his hand, but his big, dark eyes were on me.
I gaped, until his wide-eyed smirk reminded me I was in my Birthday Suit.
I clapped my hands over my groin. “Uh, hi.”
“Hi to you too.”
I was at a loss for words, so I introduced myself. “I’m Martin. Pleased to meet you.” I held out my hand, then realised where it had just been when he raised his eyebrows at it. “Oh, uh, sorry. I, umm, I seem to be a bit lost. Well, not lost, exactly, I mean, I know where I am…”
A slow smile spread down from his eyes to his mouth. “But you do seem to have lost your clothes.” He shook his head, still smiling. “And there was me, thinking maybe room service extended to delivering hot naked men.”
“Umm.” Was he flirting? He couldn’t be. Blokes this gorgeous never flirted with me. But he was looking at me expectantly, and I had to say something. I couldn’t let an opportunity like this pass me by. “I’ll happily be your room service if you could loan me some clothes. And let me use your toilet.”
Oh, smooth. Why did I have to let on I was busting for a piss?