Two Night Stand: A fun, festive read - perfect for the holidays! Read online

  What happens after the morning after the night before?

  She never does anything like this – honestly!

  After a few too many drinks on a night out, Hayley decides to do something out of character: she goes home with a man she’s really hit it off with, but one she didn’t know yesterday. Well, Chris seems like a dream, and it’s about time Hayley started living life to the full.

  But around the time she learns she’s snowed-in with Chris, she also realises the mansion they’re stuck in isn’t actually his. Now she has to spend New Year’s Eve with him.

  Has Hayley really met the man or her dreams or has her one-night stand just turned into a nightmare? And when the clock strikes midnight, will she have someone to kiss?

  A fun, festive novella set in that strange time between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. Perfect for fans of Mhairi McFarlane and Zara Stoneley.

  Also by Portia MacIntosh

  One Way or Another

  If We Ever Meet Again

  Bad Bridesmaid

  Drive Me Crazy

  Truth or Date

  It’s Not You, It’s Them

  The Accidental Honeymoon

  You Can’t Hurry Love

  Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli

  Love & Lies at the Village Christmas Shop

  The Time of Our Lives

  Honeymoon For One

  Single All The Way

  The Great Ex-Scape

  Make or Break at the Lighthouse B&B

  The Plus One Pact

  Stuck On You

  Faking It

  Copyright © Portia MacIntosh 2020

  Portia MacIntosh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters and events portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Two Night Stand

  Portia MacIntosh

  Portia MacIntosh

  has been 'making stuff up' for as long as she can remember – or so she says. Whether it was blaming her siblings for that broken vase when she was growing up, blagging her way backstage during her rock chick phase or, most recently, whatever justification she can fabricate to explain away those

  lunchtime cocktails, Portia just loves telling tales.

  After years working as a music journalist, Portia decided it was time to use her powers for good and started writing novels instead.

  Bestseller Portia writes hilarious romcoms, drawing on her real-life experiences to show what it's really like being a woman today - especially one who doesn't

  quite have her life together yet.

  You can follow her on Twitter at: @PortiaMacIntosh Instagram: @portiamacintoshauthor or visit www.portiamacintosh.com

  For Joe

  You know what this is for…

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Acknowledgments

  Free Samples

  Preview: Stuck On You

  Preview: Single All The Way

  Faking It

  Chapter One

  First of all, I have to start by saying, I don’t usually do things like this. Honestly. I never do things like this – I’ve never done anything like this before.

  Then again, I’ll bet that’s what all the girls say, or at least the ones like me, who are on the brink of being a bad girl for the first time in their lives, when they’re negotiating with themselves, in their heads, trying to excuse what they’re doing, to make a strong case for doing it.

  It’s 2020 – although not for much longer – but that’s still a good reason, right? I’m a modern, progressive woman. Then again, I did call my dad up, last week, to have him come by and change the lightbulb in my bathroom for me, but it was one of those spotlight ones that are impossible to get out without – I really hate myself for saying this – a strong pair of hands. Not my flimsy girl hands, which I did try with, I promise. That’s a flaw with me though, not women. Women don’t need men… I just do, sometimes, for some things – the things I’m bad at.

  Hmm, let’s try another one. Another angle to excuse my out of character behaviour. I am young, free and single. Well, young-ish, because 32 isn’t exactly old, is it? Although I was served up a sponsored social media post about freezing my eggs recently, which I desperately hope wasn’t targeted at me because of the demographic I’m in.

  I always have a low-key existential crisis around New Year’s Eve, but I definitely don’t need to be having one the night before the night in question, when I’m in a car with a man I just met, about to go back to his place.

  As for free and single, well, obviously I’m free, no money will be exchanging hands tonight. Single I can own, but that’s nothing to brag about, is it?

  Sorry if I’m talking crap. I’m a bit drunk – which is something I do do sometimes - and it’s probably what is giving me the false sense of confidence I have tonight.

  It’s so cold the taxi window is steaming up, probably from the heat coming from our bodies, warm from hours and hours of drinking and dancing and kissing the night away.

  I’m not being reckless. Not as reckless as I could be, at least. I may have only known this guy for half a day, tops, but he’s been sort of vetted for me already, given that we met at a work party, and he’s kind of my new boss.

  Wait, scrap everything I just said. That is reckless. He might not murder me but he could definitely kill my career.

  We’ve just had this absolute dream of a whirlwind romance across the course of the evening. Seriously, I’ve never felt such strong butterflies in my stomach. I can’t feel them now, obviously, because I’m so nervous. Nervously excited though. I’m a strong, independent, blah blah blah. I know exactly what I’m doing. I think.

  I’ve had a kind of crappy year but, if it has taught me anything, it is that we should all live in the moment, have fun, take chances... I haven’t previously subscribed to such an easy-going lifestyle, but honestly, I’ve never felt such an instant connection with someone.

  You know what? I’m not going to worry about it. I’m not going to overthink it. I’m not going to let the old me get in my head and, as for the fallout of my night of passion, well, that’s a problem for future me to worry about. Tonight, I’m just going to have fun!

  Chapter Two

  The thumping headache, the inexplicable feeling of the bed sheets hurting your skin, that deep feeling in your stomach where you simultaneously feel absolutely starving and like you’re going to throw up. I recognise all of it – it’s a hangover.

  But the strange, dark room. The unfamiliar smell. The naked man next to me who I hardly know. None of this is familiar – I’ve never had a one-night stand before.

  I cast my mind back to last night. On the one hand, I knew I was heading into one-night stand territory without a map, but on the other hand, Rowan and I really hit it off. Sure, this is out of my comfort zone, but taking the chance felt like an investment in a potential relationship.

  I say that like I can fully remember what his face looks like. Oh, God! This doesn’t feel good at all.

  He’s asleep next to me, his face buried deep in the pillow. The room is quite dark, courtes
y of the thick blinds – which I know, because there’s a digital clock in my eyeline telling me it’s 11 am – so I can’t quite see him. I can tell he has muscular shoulders and I can feel the weight of his arm because it is draped across my body, strapping me in like I’m on a rollercoaster, reminding me that the ride isn’t over yet. So to speak. Ohhh, God!

  I’m going to have to wake Rowan up, if I want to get out of bed, but as I muster up the courage to speak, and search for the right words to say, eventually I feel something coming up... it isn’t the right words though, or even the wrong ones, it’s the contents of my stomach. They’re on their way.

  ‘Erm... excuse me,’ I say weakly. ‘Excuse me!’

  Rowan wakes up suddenly, flipping onto his back, and I can just about make out that he’s trying to open his eyes, but he hasn’t been awake long enough.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks sleepily.

  ‘Bathroom,’ I say. ‘Quickly.’

  ‘Over there,’ he says, pointing just behind me.

  I can see the outline of a door so I run to it. I hit the light switch on my way in, spot the toilet and kneel in front of it. And then it all comes out.

  ‘It’s OK, let it all up,’ Rowan says.

  He’s in the bathroom with me now, which is fantastic. Can’t he leave me to me throw up in peace?

  ‘I always feel better after I’ve thrown up,’ he continues. ‘Oh boy.’

  I look up to see Rowan standing over me, peering down into the toilet.

  ‘Do you mind?’ I say. ‘Can I have some privacy please?’

  Rowan takes a few steps back and sits down on the edge of the bath.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, holding his hands up to signal his retreat.

  I’m relieved to report that he’s wearing boxer shorts. And now that I’ve finished throwing up I can see that I’ve got my underwear on. This whole scene would have been a lot more embarrassing if we were naked – especially me.

  I finally take in the room – it’s massive.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘This is a really nice bathroom.’

  ‘It’s not bad, is it?’ he replies modestly.

  It’s not just nice, it’s amazing. Like something out of a catalogue. It’s a huge room, not just for a bathroom, but generally. From the marble tiles to the huge shower to the massive freestanding bath. It’s only now that I’m noticing how fancy it is that I’ve realised the floor is heated too – thank God, I was worried something terrible had happened while I was throwing up. Now that I mention it, it would be great if he left the room, so that I can pee, but I can’t bring myself to stand up.

  I reach for a towel, yanking one off the towel rail, which is also heated. I wrap it around myself and lie down on the floor. It feels so good.

  ‘I just need a minute,’ I tell him.

  Rowan laughs.

  ‘This isn’t funny,’ I say.

  ‘It’s a little bit funny,’ he replies through a cheeky smile.

  Last night – as best I can remember – I thought he was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen in real life. Today his good looks annoy me. That dirty blonde hair that looks perfect, even though he’s just got out of bed, and those dimpled cheeks that make him look like he’s up to something – ergh. Last night he was a dream but today I feel like I’m trapped in a nightmare. Well, look at me, lying on his bathroom floor, throwing up in his toilet. And my memory of last night may be hazy but I’m pretty sure he’s my new boss, so I may as well kiss my job goodbye.

  I close my eyes. I’m not opening them until he’s gone.

  ‘Can I use your shower, please?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure,’ he replies. ‘You’ve found the towels already, so you’re halfway there. Go for it. I’ll meet you in the kitchen – I’ll be putting the coffee on. You seem like you need it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply, although what I actually need is to go home, immediately fire-up LinkedIn, and start peddling the old ‘I just feel like it’s time for a new challenge’ line.

  Rowan leaves me to it, closing the door behind him. A second after he does so the lighting changes to something much dimmer. Such a soft, warm relaxing glow. All bathrooms need lighting options – I’m officially sold on it now. The only option I have in my bathroom is to have the lights on or off.

  I want to get up, get in the shower, and get out of here more than anything, but I’m just so warm and cosy on this floor. How can lying on tile feel so nice? It’s like the heat creates this padded effect, making the hard floor seem soft.

  I close my eyes. Just for a second. I’ll just lie here for a minute, tops, and…

  Shit! I fell asleep. How long was I asleep? It honestly could have been seconds, minutes or hours – I have no idea. That said, I’m sure if it had been hours, Rowan probably would have nipped back upstairs to make sure his grossest employee hadn’t died on his lovely bathroom floor.

  I pull myself to my feet and head for the shower cubicle. It seems silly, calling it a cubicle, when it’s more like a room of its own. And, oh my God, it has a seat. I’ve never been so happy to see a seat in a shower. Again, something else I’d like to take away from this ordeal with me – sitting in the shower. Of course, I can’t afford a shower room like this, so the best I can probably do is stick a garden chair in my bath, under the showerhead. But, you know what? I’ll make it work.

  The water pours down on me from the large shower head, like my own personal raincloud, but with such soothing warm water – and I swear it’s giving me a massage. Can a fancy shower do that or am I still a bit drunk? I’m not really a very good drinker.

  I’m just going to enjoy this shower while I can, get dressed and get out of here – I don’t care if the coffee machine is as epic as the shower, this whole thing has been a big mistake.

  The events of last night are a blur. Somethings I remember, then there are all these gaps, but I’m sure it’s safe to say that the things I do remember are embarrassing and the things I don’t remember… well, it’s probably for the best that I don’t remember those.

  At least now I know why I don’t ever do things like this, I suppose. It’s because I’m so, so painfully bad at them.

  Chapter Three

  The best way I’ve found to get myself through the last few months of the year has been by telling myself one thing: next year has to be better than this year.

  I usually find New Year’s Eve quite depressing. It’s such an anticlimactic night, for so many reasons. I think the expectation of a new beginning being possible always kind of bums me out. People make New Year’s resolutions – promises to better themselves, to stop doing bad things, or at least start doing good ones. But why does that have to start on 1st January? Why not better yourself today?

  I make no such promises on New Year’s Eve. Well, not usually. This year I haven’t made a resolution, but I have been telling myself over and over that 2021 was going to be better. It’s going to be my year. I’m going to make it my year. Ha!

  I suppose that’s what last night was all about – starting as I mean to go on. I’ll be putting an immediate stop to it now, as fast as you can sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’, which incidentally I hate too. I don’t know what it is about that song that brings me to tears.

  I’ve pulled my long blonde hair into a bun on the top of my head, and I’ve retrieved my clothes from various locations in the bedroom.

  Speaking of the bedroom – wow. I thought the bathroom was impressive but this room is something else.

  It’s an old-fashioned room, but intentionally so, with lots of dark wood and retro patterns. But then it also has a modern streak, with plenty of gadgets, and a large TV mounted on the wall. Somehow the old and the new come together perfectly. The main star of the room though is the huge wooden fourposter bed at its heart. I didn’t notice it, when I slept in it last night, or when I was (presumably) awake in it last night.

  I run my hands along the wood, admiring the shapes carved into it, and its silky-smooth finish, but as I get to the head of the bed I noti
ce the scarves tied to each of the bedposts. Are they… are they for…?

  Ah. Right, time to go.

  I gather my things, slip on my heels and hurry into my coat before heading downstairs.

  It’s a large, curved staircase that leads to a big, heavy front door.

  ‘I need to get going, see you later,’ I call out, about as casually as I can, but I’m freaked out.

  Those were clearly restraints, on the bedposts, which is either a sex thing or something more sinister. I am so close to surviving 2020, so I really don’t want to get murdered, but I want it to be a sex thing even less. My idea of kinky is leaving the lights on.

  ‘Wait a second,’ I hear Rowan call from another room. I can hear a panic in his voice which only terrifies me further.

  ‘I can’t really hang around, I’ve got a party to get ready for tonight, as much as I’d love to stay for coffee,’ I lie.

  ‘I don’t think you’re going anywhere,’ Rowan says, standing in the doorway, holding a knife.

  I do my best to ignore him and turn to the front door. I try to open it but it’s locked.

  ‘Can you let me out please?’ I ask politely, but I can’t quite hide how freaked out I am.

  ‘I can’t open that door,’ he replies.

  I notice that Rowan is wearing an apron that says ‘prick with a fork’ on it – somehow this comedy apron only makes him seem more sinister.

  ‘Look, Rowan, I know you’re my boss,’ I start tactfully.

  Well, the mistake people always make in horror movies is to freak out and scream and try to run away. I always wonder why more people don’t try and sweet-talk their way out of situations. My survival strategy is to pretend I’m cool with whatever is going on, and hope that makes it less appealing, but also gets me on-side. I really don’t want to be murdered today.

  ‘My name isn’t Rowan,’ he replies. ‘And I’m not your boss.’