My Favorite Half-Night Stand by Christina Lauren

chapter nine

millie

After the briefest brush of his lips, Reid takes a step back, leaving what I assume is a platonic amount of distance between us. But I’m a little woozy from both the wine and his proximity so I chase him, stopping only when his eyes swing to the picture window where the rest of our group is congregated inside, loudly playing cards.

Right. Witnesses.

Reid takes my iPad, turning it over in his hands. I send up a silent prayer that I closed the app before locking the screen. For a second, things get too quiet; I think he’s going to gently remind me that we’re not doing this again.

That we should definitely not do this again.

But then, he looks up at me and half grins, eyes dark. “Why don’t you head up first?”

Static fills my bloodstream. “Okay. My room?” At the end of the hall, it makes the most sense.

Nodding, he says, “I’ll follow in a few minutes.”

I take my iPad, grab my blanket, and head inside before I can say something that will make one or both of us change our minds. I have no idea what we’re doing. All I know is his messages are sweet and it felt good to open up a little. His family is amazing and his house is so relaxing and I like spending time with him more than with any other human on the planet. He likes Cat, and Cat is me, and we’re going upstairs to have sex.

I’ll worry about everything else tomorrow.

Inside, I’m hit with a wall of sound as soon as I open the door.

“Oh good.” Ed’s face brightens when he sees me, and he steps forward, gripping my arm and pulling me into his conversation. “Mills, tell them about that girl I met on the cruise. The one with the leg,” he says, and motions for me to take the floor.

His cheeks are pink from what I can only guess is a case of beer, and he’s got that cartoonish grin plastered on his face. I don’t have to see Reid to know he’s watching me with amusement from outside, wondering how I’ll extricate myself from happy, tipsy Ed. Once he gets going it’s almost impossible to get away.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, I have to get in and out before anyone notices I have my I’m about to have sex! face on.

I frown. “Actually, I think I’m heading to bed.” I rub my stomach. “Feeling sort of . . . oof.”

Sharon stands, and the look of concern on her face is so similar to her son’s, I’m momentarily thrown. “You’re not feeling well, honey?”

I wave her off, wishing I’d been stealthier when sneaking in. In hindsight, hopping the fence to come in through the front door seems a lot easier than this. “I just really enjoyed the ribs, I think.”

Ed’s face falls, and Rayme sticks out her bottom lip in a sweet pout that is thoroughly catalogued by every nonrelative male in the house—including, I notice, Chris.

“But you’re not really even drunk yet,” she says.

I point to Ed. “He’s drunk enough for both of us. Can’t let that one out of your sight.”

With that, I’m allowed to make my escape.

Unfortunately, victory is short-lived, because once I’m in my room, panic descends: what tripped my mood wasn’t just how sweet Reid was being, it was the sudden, heated flash of awareness that if Daisy and Reid hit it off, Daisy will see Reid naked.

I may not have a clue what I want beyond tonight, but I certainly don’t want anyone else to see Reid naked but me.

And then there’s the reality that he agreed so easily. Has he been thinking about doing this again and waiting for me to take the initiative? Am I going to make an enormous knot of confused emotions with my best friend?

I am immediately distracted by something equally pressing. “Oh my God.” I haven’t shaved my legs in . . . ho boy.

Trying to triage this appearance situation—and knowing I don’t have time to shave all my parts before Reid gets here, even if he does get waylaid by Tipsy Ed—I pull my hair out of its bun, fluff it, but then tie it up again. I throw off my clothes and pull on my pajamas, but then start to put all my clothes back on again so I don’t seem too . . . eager? I manage to get my shirt on before I catch my reflection in the vanity mirror, noting the eyeliner situation currently pooling beneath my lids.

I pull out a makeup wipe, trying to scrub away the mess, but then Reid knocks, walks in, and does a mild double take in reaction to the mess of my mascara all around my eyes.

“Wow. What’s up, Rocky?” His eyes drop to my shirt, which I’ve put on backward, and my bare legs beneath. “You . . . okay?”

“Shit.” I scrub at my eyes. “Yes.”

“Aww, Mills. You’re primping for me.”

“Am not.”

“You’re freaking out.” He comes up behind me, looking over my shoulder and meeting my eyes in the mirror. “Aren’t you?”

“I’m . . . no.” I turn around and face him. “Not freaking out. This is not the face of someone who is freaking out. This is the face of someone who . . .” Just realized that she’s a petty, jealous asshole and really wants to have sex but is also worried about the consequences.

“Who what?”

I blink up at him. “Wait. How did you get up here so fast?”

“I witnessed your ambush and went through the garage.” He stops short as his eyes travel down my body again, and he takes a step closer.

I cannot express how much I like intense, about-to-get-laid Reid.

Gripping my hip, he teases the elastic waistband of my underwear. “Here I was thinking I’d get to undress you.”

Even through the fabric of his clothes, I can feel the heat of his body against my stomach, where the fronts of his thighs rub against the fronts of mine. “I didn’t shave my legs.”

We’re so close; I feel his quiet laugh more than hear it. “You keep tampons in my bathroom and once used lube you found in my dresser to unstick a zipper. I don’t think a little leg hair is going to shock me.”

“I know, it’s just—that’s one of the things you do when you’re planning to have sex. Shave your legs, brush your teeth, wax your . . .”

His brows go up. “You should know that I don’t care about any of those things.” He runs his nose along the curve of my jaw before straightening again. “Okay, except the teeth brushing part. We can continue to prioritize that.”

“Noted,” I say, eyes closing when his fingers trail lower, tracing my hip bone. I feel the way he smiles against my chin, along the column of my throat. “Everyone’s downstairs.” Open mouth, breath hot against my skin. “Should we do something else until they go to bed?”

My head falls back against the wall and I very clearly identify with the phrase short-circuited. I’d like to think there’s at least one rational thought still bouncing around inside my cranium, but I’m incapable of retrieving it.

“Something else?” I say, voice a little wavery. “Like play Go Fish?”

His hands move up, dragging my shirt over my head before sliding my underwear down over my hips. He touches me like every part is worth something immeasurable.

His voice is a whisper against my shoulder. “I’ve never had sex in my parents’ house before.”

This catches my attention. “Never?”

He smiles again, moving lower, and dropping open-mouthed kisses between my breasts and over the cotton of my bra. He sucks on my nipple through the fabric and I arch into the touch. Big hands move around my ribs to my back, getting rid of the bra altogether with a casual flick.

Finally, he shakes his head in answer. “Never.”

My fingers twist in his hair. “I assume it’s the same”—I gasp in a breath as he opens his mouth against my skin, sucking—“only quieter.”

Reid looks up at me, wearing a smug, devious grin. “I’m not sure I can do quieter.”

Every single neuron in my body is firing, I swear it. “Oh.”

Reid straightens to his full height and I have to look up to meet his gaze again. I’m completely naked—bra on the floor, panties pushed down—but Reid is still dressed.

“Should we stay here? Maybe against a wall . . .” he says, bracing one hand near my head to cage me in. He nods back over his shoulder. “The bed might squeak.”

The idea of the mattress squeaking, of being able to hear what we’re doing, causes heat to explode through my body.

I stretch to kiss him, and push against his chest to send him a step back. Then another, and another, leading him to the small double bed beneath the window.

There are suddenly too many clothes between us. I slide his shirt up his torso, stopping when he gets the hint and tugs it off himself. I’ve seen his body before. We swim together and go to the gym, not to mention that Reid knows what he looks like and struts around shirtless all the time. But it was pretty dark when we had sex, and I was a little drunk. Right now the lights are on and I am mostly sober. I’m going to look and touch and enjoy every inch that I can.

“I can be quiet,” I tell him.

“That’s good,” he says, amused as I struggle with his belt. “Otherwise my dad will think it’s the pipes or something and we’ll have an audience of at least one.”

“Ugh, no dad talk right now.”

I graze a nail over his nipple and he sucks in a breath. “Okay, then my mom. Or Alex—God knows he’d probably pull up a chair and give me pointers—”

“I swear to God I will leave—”

I’m stopped by the grip of his hand on the back of my neck and the press of his smile against mine. His lips are as soft as I remember, but less frantic, more experimental as he takes his time. I shove him down to his back so I can straddle his legs, and he groans into my mouth.

“God, you feel amazing.” He chases my bottom lip, sucking a little before pulling away and searching my face. “Are we really doing this again?”

The sound of his zipper lowering cuts through the silence. I guess that’s answer enough. We both laugh at the insanity of this entire thing, quietly shushing each other at the sound of Ed’s voice floating from downstairs.

“Not really the person I wanted to hear right now,” Reid groans, rocking slowly up against me, the hard parts of his body molding perfectly against the soft parts of mine.

“This is vacation sex, right?” I say, breathless as his teeth graze my ear.

“Exactly.” He pulls away long enough to lift his hips and help me push his jeans down his legs, before returning to my mouth. “Sex is like calories.”

Kiss.

“Doesn’t count on vacation.”

Kiss.

To be fair, we should probably be giving this more discussion, but Reid’s hands seem to be everywhere at once: on my breasts and between my legs, on my lips, my neck, my waist.

His reasoning makes perfect sense.

I’m not sure if it was in his pocket or in a drawer—I don’t even want to think about where it came from—but one second there’s a condom in his hand, and the next it’s on him and he’s staring up at me, waiting.

I move so slowly, careful not to call his name or rock the bed; it’s almost hard to breathe, like the air is being pushed from my body to make room for his.

I don’t want to examine too closely that this is Reid, and that doing this with him is somehow just as easy as doing anything else together. The way he smiles up at me is the same way he always looks at me: like there is nowhere else he’d rather be. There’s no awkwardness or tentative touches. It’s just us.

His hands map a circuit from my hair to my arms and thighs and everywhere in between. I watch his face, noting when sensation becomes too much and he has to close his eyes and twist his fingers in the comforter, and then I do it again, wanting to see more, to see him rattled and undone.

“You are,” he says, breathless, “the best . . .”

And I shake my head, leaning forward to kiss him. I’m sweating and my muscles shake; I’m so tightly wound that I’m practically burning. I keep my movements small so we don’t move the bed too much, but then he makes this quiet sound of relief and I’m not sure I care anymore. I’m so close to that feeling that might overflow and drown us both.

Reid’s hands move from my breasts to my hips and he grips me tightly, moving with me. Sweat pools in the hollows of his collarbones, down the center of his chest to where our bodies meet, and I want to stamp the image on the back of my eyelids, frame it, and hang it on every wall in my house. His face is flushed with the exertion of holding back.

I see the exact moment he breaks. His mouth opens on a gasp, on a sound he can’t make, and he falls, pulling me down with him.

I wake up alone.

I don’t remember when Reid left, but when I think back on everything we did last night, I’m not surprised he needed to go crash in his own bed. The second time, we were . . . enthusiastic,to say the least, and I was exhausted by the end of it. My last memory is of falling to pieces with Reid behind me, and I swear I must have just passed out as soon as I returned to orbit. I’m no expert, but I’d call that a success.

Well done, Reid.

It takes some work to sit up and get my feet under me and—oh yeah, everything hurts. The bed doesn’t seem to be faring much better: most of the blankets are piled on the floor, a couple of pillows are by the window, and the sheets are barely hanging on.

I have no idea where my underwear might be.

At least my jeans are where I left them, and after a quick stop in the bathroom, I fish my phone out of one of the pockets. There’s just enough juice left to show that Cat has messages waiting.

Sheets straightened and pillows and blankets accounted for, I sit on the bed and open the app. I’m honestly surprised when I see one is from Reid; it takes me a minute to calculate when it could have shown up. There wasn’t anything when I came upstairs last night, so he would have had to have written it while he waited on the deck (before heading up to have sex with me), in bed while I slept (after having sex with me), or back in his own room (again, after having had sex with me).

My finger hovers over the unopened message. What does it say that Reid still wrote Catherine after deciding to or actually sleeping with me? The point was to get him to like Cat more than Daisy, so am I happy he possibly wrote fake me while sex-drunk naked real me was sleeping in the same house? Maybe the same bed?

But did he write Daisy, too?

Straightening, I stop the mental spiral. Reid isn’t a player. At all.

Still, knowing this about him doesn’t really make me feel any better; he still slept with me and then left to go write another woman. The fact that I’m upset only compounds the knowledge that this whole alter ego thing is A Big Mistake. Sleeping together again is An Even Bigger Mistake, and will most likely end in a train wreck of mighty proportions.

Okay, okay, all that said, it doesn’t make that flashing notification any less interesting, and since I’ve already screwed things up . . .

I look down at my phone. It’s dead.

Unfortunately, my phone cord is in my purse, and my purse is in the kitchen. All the way downstairs.

With a deep breath for bravery, I throw on the pajamas I’d meant to wear last night, grab my dead phone, and tiptoe out of the room.

But the thing about old houses is that they’re loud. The heat clanks its way up the ductwork, steel expanding and contracting before being silenced by the hiss of warmed air. The windows stick, the frames protesting being separated from the sash. The floors creak with every step, particularly when you’re trying to be quiet.

I’ve spent enough weekends here to know which boards squeak, and which steps to avoid, but Bailey, the Campbell family’s schnauzer, is clearly not up to speed on the Sneaking Around plan. I manage to tiptoe past a row of closed doors and make it as far as the landing before Bailey comes barreling down the hall, almost knocking us both down the stairs.

We end up at the bottom a lot faster and a whole lot noisier than I’d intended, but when I strain to listen, I don’t hear a thing. No footsteps or voices, just the faintest sounds of snores from upstairs.

Sweet.

My purse is where I left it, and rather than risk Bailey and the creaky stairs again, I pull out a chair, plug in my phone, and quietly settle in at the dining room table.

It takes a moment for the screen to come to life, but when it does, the notification is still there, waiting. I take a quick look around like I’m about to commit a crime, and open Reid’s message.

From: Reid C.

Sent: 3:14 am, April 1

It’s late right now, too late—or too early—I’m sure, to be writing, but I really couldn’t sleep, and I wanted to thank you for your lovely message. First of all, your dad sounds like an amazing guy, I’d love to hear more about him. And I hope this doesn’t show too much of what a terrible human I am, but I hope that Tessa is waitressing in a polluted truck stop somewhere now.

You’re right about parents surprising us. Back when my parents were newly married, there weren’t many houses nearby. Coming here was the first time my city-slicker mom had ever lived in what she considered to be country, and she was completely out of her element. She’s nothing like that now, but Dad likes to tell stories of her screeching at the sound of a coyote, or running at the sight of a raccoon near the garbage bins. She also knew that accidents happened on farms all the time—my dad lost his arm here when he was a teenager—and so she worried about having two small children at home, and us being so far away from a hospital. When my sister was still just a baby, Mom would have me do these drills to prepare for an emergency. What would I do if Rayme got bitten by a spider? What if she fell down the steep stairs? What would I do if I didn’t know where Mom was? Of course, “I would find the candy bars you hide in the cupboard and eat them before you came back” wasn’t what she was looking for, so we memorized my dad’s cell phone number together, and practiced calling 911.

Even then I thought it was silly, but one day I found Rayme on the floor, and her lips were purple. I ran to my mom in a panic. In the calmest voice she’s ever used, she told me it was okay. She called 911 and turned Rayme over on her lap, carefully hitting her between the shoulder blades and softly telling her to come on, breathe.

Turns out, Rayme had swallowed one of my Legos, and only once it was out and Rayme was crying again did my mom burst into tears. I must have been nine at the time, but I never looked at my mom the same way again.

That was a much longer story than I’d intended, but being here, with my parents and my friends, I’m glad I remembered that. I feel like I’ve been giving Mom sort of a hard time lately, and maybe I needed to remember how badass she was when I was little.

Speaking of my friends, I can’t tell you what it’s like being here with them again. I think it’s easy to become complacent and maybe forget how important people are to you. I’m not sure if I gave you Millie’s name or not but we’ve been hanging out a lot and . . . she’s the most amazing and confusing person I’ve ever known. It’s late now, but maybe I can tell you about her next time. Thanks for listening, C, and I hope you have a great end to your weekend.

R.

I sit back in my chair. I don’t even know what to call this emotion in my chest. Fondness melted with anger and hurt. This wasn’t just a quick note after he was with me. This is a letter.

I bend, cupping my forehead. How much leeway do I get here to be mad? On the one hand, we’d just had sex—twice—and then he left to go write another woman. On the other hand, I am that woman, and am lying to him every time I pretend I’m not. Neither of us is innocent here, but at least I’m only sleeping with Reid and writing Reid. He’s sleeping with me and writing two other—!

I scroll back through his message again, zooming in.

“Uh, what are you doing?”

I swallow a scream when I turn and see Ed standing over me with a leftover rib in his hand. His eyes are glued to my screen.

“Working!” I shove the phone into my pocket, hoping he doesn’t notice the way the cord is stretched taut between me the wall. I rest a casual elbow on the table and absently twist a piece of my hair. “I just needed to get my laptop.”

Ed makes Disappointed Seth Rogen Face at me. “So where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

Frowning, I track him as he walks to where my laptop bag is still hanging by the door, and back as he sets it on the table. God damn it.

Ed pulls out the chair next to me and sits. He takes a bite of rib, chews, swallows, thinks. “It’s funny because it looks like you’re pretending to be Catherine, and it sounds like you had sex with Reid last night.”

I bark out a laugh that echoes in the empty kitchen. “What! That’s insane! How much did you have to drink?”

I stand and move to step around him, only to be stopped short by the cord jerking me backward.

“Mills,” he says, “I’m in the room next to yours, and in case you haven’t noticed, the walls are pretty thin. I heard all about some ‘spot’ you wanted him to ‘keep hitting.’ I hope you both refreshed with electrolytes afterward, because”—he whistles—“wow.”

“I . . .” My eyes dart around the kitchen, hoping the correct response will materialize on one of the community flyers on the fridge. “Okay, there’s a good explanation for all that.”

Ed scoots back, propping his feet on the edge of the table. “I’m ready when you are.”

Defeat and panic make me insane. I grab Ed by the shoulders. “Don’t tell him I’m Catherine,” I say in a burst. “If he finds out . . . I . . .” I shake my head and start again, “He . . .”

To his credit, Ed doesn’t seem to be taking much joy from my mortification. He sits up and holds his hands out in front of him. “What were you thinking? That you didn’t want him to like Daisy?”

“Yes?”

“But you wanted him to like Catherine?”

I nod emphatically. I know the answer to this question. “Yes.”

“But there isn’t a Catherine.”

“No. I mean, yes. It’s my middle name . . .”

Ed rolls his eyes. “Well in that case, it’s totally okay. So what happens if he does like Catherine? Won’t he eventually want to meet her? I mean, you? Since you’re Catherine.”

I glance back over his shoulder and hiss, “Can you stop saying Catherine so many times?”

He glares at me. “Do you like him?”

“Reid? What? No.” I double down on this answer, even though it feels a lot like lying. “Not like that.”

“I love how offended you look, considering what I had to listen to last night.” He stands and walks to the fridge, opening the door and pulling out a beer. “I am not drunk enough for this yet.”

“Ed, it’s like seven in the morning.”

He wheels on me. “I will not be judged by you!”

Holding up my hands in defense, I tell him through a laugh, “Fine, sorry, sorry.”

He cracks the bottle open and returns to his seat. “Now you. Out with it.”

“Okay.” Deep breath. Calm down. “I started an account because you guys gave me shit about how boring mine was, and also I was getting matched with a lot of assholes. But then Reid somehow matched with me—as Cat. I thought he’d figure it out because I made some stupid crack about Monopoly. And Girls Trip. And cats. But he didn’t!”

I wait.

Ed blinks. “You are not blaming Reid here for being too dumb to know he’s talking to you online.”

Yes. “No.” I groan, dropping my head to my arms on the table. “When you guys started talking about how Catherine must be ugly, I guess I got a little competitive.”

“Well, at least it sounds like you had a proportionate response. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Shut up. I know.”

“We were all doing this together,” he says. “Am I the only person taking this dating plan seriously?”

When I sit up again, he’s looking at me with Sad Ed eyes, and I can barely stand it. “I’m taking it seriously. I promise. It just . . .” I flounder. “Once I started being Cat it felt—I don’t know—easier to be more open? Is that weird?”

“Not really,” he admits. “I think I get why you’d want to keep it to yourself. But . . . it’s Reid. You know? You’re lying to Reid. That’s like lying to your dad or something.”

“No, Ed, it’s nothing like that. Please don’t put Reid and dads—”

“It’s bad, is what I’m saying.”

“I know how bad it is,” I hiss, and the truth rolls out of me without warning, “but it’s also sort of nice.”

He tilts his head down, staring up at me through thick eyebrows. “It’s ‘nice’?”

I feel my cheeks heat. My explanation comes out meek: “I like being able to talk to Reid like this. Is that terrible?”

Ed stares at me with gentle pity. “You are a mess, you know this, right?”

I sit up. “You won’t tell him, will you?”

I can’t even fathom what I’d do if Reid found out. Am I in too deep? I mean . . . it doesn’t feel like a runaway train yet. It feels like we’re getting to know each other, like a sweet entrée into . . . a different place for us. But the idea of Ed saying something to Reid before I can figure out how to fix this so thoroughly nauseates me that it chases away any residual hurt-anger that Reid left my bed to go write Cat. I am, without a doubt, the bad guy here.

Ed runs a hand through his hair and looks around the room. “I won’t say anything. But this kind of thing is sort of hard to juggle, Mills.”